


Miami

by Agaryulnaer, sarisa



Series: Interlude [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agaryulnaer/pseuds/Agaryulnaer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarisa/pseuds/sarisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part two of... uh... nine? For now?</p><p>Arthur gets a few drunken voicemails, and Eames recruits him for a job in- you guessed it- Miami. Some things get FUBAR, and others amazingly... don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miami

Arthur ends up spending longer than he'd intended in New Hampshire. He's lying low, of course, using one of his aliases (who happens to have a private investigator's license, which his actual main alias does not possess) and doing some information-gathering in the city while visiting his mum a couple of days a week. She informs him that she hasn't seen him so much in nearly a decade, and he'd best leave soon or she'll come to be dependent on him being there, and then she'll be very displeased with him. He takes this as the dismissal it is, kissing her cheek and leaving her with two-dozen of her favorite wildflowers before hopping a train to New York City.

 

He keeps tabs on them all. He'll admit that. Once he reappears in the city, he's contacted within a week by an associate of Saito's, who had recommended him as an investigator, a researcher. This keeps him busy, his favorite state of being, for several months, working jobs both for the former 'tourist's' associates and for Saito himself, on whom he'd apparently made an impression, though he has no idea how. He'd thought the magnate had taken more to Eames... but money is money, and he won't complain.

 

Ariadne has graduated, he'd discovered, and he can't keep himself from sending her a card. Signed only with a small picture of a die, of course, but she'll know who it's from. The cruise tickets he'd included likely won't hurt, either; he hadn't been able to help himself. From what he can tell, Yusuf is still in Mombasa, and Cobb... Cobb, he'd called twice, in three months. The first time, Philippa had answered. The second time, Dom himself, although he'd apparently made the mistake of calling during bedtime. His friend had sounded frazzled and happier than Arthur had perceived him to be in years.

 

He hadn't called again. Dom has his own life now.

 

And as for the forger... he's travelled. Arthur has reliable evidence of Eames in Moscow, Prague, and Rio de Janiero over the past three months, and he'll admit to stalking the man a bit more enthusiastically than he'd done prior to the Fischer job. But... he's been keeping an eye on everyone, in case of reprisals. That's all it is. Fischer had seen Eames' face multiple times during the job. It's just... precautions, of course.

 

Indeed, after the end of the Fischer job, traveling seems to be all Eames does. He’s back in Mombasa (after a boring stay in an LA hotel) all of a week before he’s contacted for a job; it’s not dream work, and Eames is feeling almost painfully restless, and so he takes it. Off to Moscow it is, then, for an interesting game of jewelry theft. Normally that would be a bit mundane, but this one involves Eames working days as a maid (no kidding) for the lucky rich-ass family, conning the poor missus into seducing him, the kidnapping of a small dog, and one strange night in a karaoke bar that Eames would very much like to forget.

 

All in all, just enough action to keep him on his toes, enough money to send him off to Prague after, where he spends some time working with a bunch of cheerful blokes running a money-printing scam in which money is laundered through high-end strippers. Eames spends a good week in a casino there. In his free time, not actually for the job he’s doing. He remembers none of it. It was glorious. Probably.

 

Things slow down after that, and he ends up in Rio de Janeiro, and then, finally, Miami, where, interestingly enough, he gets another job. This by itself isn’t particularly interesting, as there is almost always a job or two, it’s just the difficulty and import of each job varies. This one, though, is no trivial thing. It’s the sort of job that will be time-consuming, difficult, require a very good team, and have an enormous pay off provided everyone doesn’t end up behind bars. Eames agrees early on, but one of the other team members has to drop out when he finds himself in the middle of a nasty debate between himself and an old employer, regarding whether or not he should carry on living. That guy disappears right quick, leaving a gaping hole in the team… that, in a flash of maybe-a-little-biased-insight, Eames realizes can be filled _perfectly_ by someone he knows.

 

He mentions this to his employer, who has heard of him before—well. In this business, it’s no wonder. He’s good. Eames has always admitted that. So now it’s only a matter of seeing if Arthur has any inclination to work with him again. Considering the voicemail Eames leaves him, it’s not a guaranteed thing. He had to make sure Arthur knew that the other people on the team were okay; the point man wouldn’t want to take a job with a bunch of blokes he hardly knows. In retrospect, he probably should have left the back room of the bar where they keep all of the good poker games and scantily clad women before making the call. But then, Eames’ decision-making skills are always at sub-par when slightly drunken.

 

 _“Arthur darling! You should be getting a call or two from a very generous lady soon about it, but I thought I ought to give you a warning—no thank you, sweet, I’m on the—well, when you put it that way—ahem, sorry, complimentary drinks, you know, avoid tequila with severe prejudice, maybe you’ll listen to my advice, I certainly never do. Anyway, I find myself with this great group of gents and I thought you know who would fit right in? Good guess, you are a quick one, it was you.”_ Of course, he can’t give up any details on the actual job, or the people running it, but reading between the (drunken) lines, the point is clear. _“They’re all right. Anyway—fuck. That’s what I get for betting based on looks. Ahh, the point is, and I have one, I usually do you know, it just ends up at the end because it wouldn’t make much sense without the preface, the point is, I miss you dreadfully, pet, you don’t write, you don’t call… it’s really... quite lonely.”_ This is of course said at the exact moment that the noise in the background increases about tenfold. Eames pauses, probably basking in the irony of that uncanny timing. Then he adds, _“Ta, love,”_ and hangs up.

 

Arthur stands with his phone still at his ear for at least a minute after the message has finished playing, and the pre-recorded female voice asks him if he would like to save the message, delete it, or replay it. After a pause, he presses a button on the keypad and listens through the message one more time. His expression, to the people in the crowd on the sidewalk that is parting around him like the Red Sea, must be quite hilarious; his brow is deeply furrowed, and the emotion in his face is caught somewhere between 'what the fuck' and 'dear God.'

 

After a moment, he decides to save the message, since there's nothing incriminating, and chooses very deliberately not to think about whether or not he'd heard correctly, that Eames had actually admitted to being 'quite lonely.' Instead, he thinks about this potential job, and about whether or not he'll take it, as he makes his way back to his alias' apartment- he often thinks of the place in those terms, since the flat isn't precisely his. Of course, he is also his alias, but the place has essentially no personality, as he's certain certain people would point out. It's just... a place to sleep, and to work. To cook in. Nothing more than that, to Arthur, which is how he can leave it behind with enviable ease when he leaves for jobs.

 

Speaking of which... he probably won't take this particular job. Wherever Eames is, it sounds like a place in which Arthur has no interest, and he already has several offers on the table. There's no need to take a job just because Eames had apparently recommended him. Frankly, he's doing perfectly well without extraction as a work opportunity, and the other project offers he has at the moment would keep him in New York. He knows for a fact that Eames is not currently in the city, as it happens.

 

The next morning, after receiving an interesting phone call with, not surprisingly, a job offer, Arthur is on a plane from JFK to Miami.

 

He knows he's going to regret this. He knows it when he buys the plane ticket, when he clears security, when the stewardess brings his drink, and again when he's getting off the plan and hailing a cab. Eames is going to make his life hell, just as he always does. Giving in this easily and doing what Eames wants will only make the forger think he can manipulate Arthur into doing whatever he pleases. He might have some ability to do that, a small voice in the back of Arthur's head reminds him, but the point man silences that rather viciously. Things that quite literally happened in a dream, several months before, are not likely to change the forger's behavioral pattern. Just as they haven't changed Arthur's.

 

He knocks twice on the door of the office space the cabbie had dropped him off at, knowing he'd gotten the correct address. Habit (and survival instinct) have him on his guard, knowing that even though one person he knows is inside, there are also several unknowns.

 

A movement in the blinds of the one window next to the door indicates that someone had heard him, spotted him, and not shot him, so that's something. There's a pause, and then the door opens slowly to reveal Amy Walsh, the woman he'd spoken to on the phone. Of course, she knows what he looks like from pictures alone; she assumed the same, of him, and so doesn't seem to mind being the one to open the door. She's the one who hired them all, after all.

 

She's tall, although obviously not as tall as Arthur, even in heels, just the wrong side of 'young', and looks like a wealthy businesswoman ought to look: nothing really to differentiate or distinguish her aside from the fact that she's immaculately dressed, her clothing is obviously expensive, and her smile is perfectly businesslike. "You must be Arthur," she says, even though she knows perfectly well that he is. She holds the door open further to admit him. "Please, come in."

 

The front room is very much like you would expect the front room of any office building to be, with a reception desk (there is no one behind it), several chairs obviously meant for waiting visitors, and tasteful but bland art prints. Obviously no work is done here, but there are quiet sounds of talking from behind the door next to the reception desk. The professional smile stays in place as Miss Walsh allows him a moment to be certain no one is about to attack. "I hope there were no problems with your flight."

 

Arthur doesn't smile back, although he is polite. "Yes. Thank you, Ms. Walsh." The consummate professional, as always. He's heard of this woman, and had done his research on her before he'd made the trip. Very well to do in the pharmaceutical field, and a partner in one of the wealthier corporations. Arthur has actually worked for another branch of the monopolistic corporation she is a partner in, before, which he assumes is why he's gotten this job offer, aside from Eames' recommendation.

 

He steps inside and allows her to close the door behind him, although he doesn't sit. "Thank you for coming," she says, stepping back once the door is closed and retrieving a folder from the otherwise-empty receptionist's desk, handing it to him. He doesn't open it yet, waiting, and she nods. Smart man. "Five hundred thousand for each member of the team to extract the leak of certain... delicate personal information regarding me to one of my competitors in the corporation. I know which one it was, but I need proof."

 

Considering the offer, Arthur raises his brows slightly but nods, still not opening the folder. "Any reason why the money is so... generous? Pardon me for saying, ma'am, but it sounds pretty cut and dry to me."

 

"It is." Walsh smiles politely again. "The extra money is for the trouble you'll need to go to in order to handle his subconscious. I am given to understand that he was trained by one of the best to prevent extraction."

 

That would complicate things, yes. Arthur nods. "Do you know by whom?" She shakes her head, and he shrugs slightly, holding out a hand. Eames had said these people are all right, trustworthy at least as far as this job goes. He trusts the forger in that. She shakes firmly, her hand brushing his as she lets it go, and he really hopes that's an accident as she leads the way into the next room.

 

Ms. Walsh again holds the door open for Arthur, and they both wander into the next room, which is just as obviously a business office in the way that the front room was obviously a reception area. It's a large, open space, clearly once intended as a space for cubicles, but those are all long gone, replaced by a few scattered desks, file cabinets, and of course, the sorts of chairs which recline. There's still a great deal of open space, though, where several people could bring chairs and sit together, or something of that nature.

 

Notably, all of the windows- what windows there are- are shaded; obviously from the outside there would be no way to look in, and the light that does make it through into the room is dim, easily overshadowed by the florescent lighting, which continues all the way to the back of the room, where a smaller room is located, this one windowless except on the interior walls. This is obviously a meeting room, with a large table, ostensibly comfortable chairs, and even a white board. Next to that is a hallway, leading back to a few other doorways, one open to a kitchen, behind it bathrooms.

 

It's obvious very quickly that the other team members are in the meeting room, as they can be seen through the windows, and of course heard, as the door isn't closed. Ms. Walsh leads the way, and conversation stops when she and Arthur enter the room.

 

Eames is there, half-lounged in his chair and surrounded on either side by unknown people; he looks up with the rest of them when Arthur appears, and doesn't bother to hide his grin at seeing the point man, but keeps his mouth shut until their employer is finished with the introductions. "This is everyone, now, so here you have Pete, our Architect-" She points to the slightly pudgy young man on Eames' left, old enough to have graduated but clearly young; he nods halfheartedly, not meeting Arthur's eyes. "- and Mr. Young-" Older man with a scar across his cheek; he nods, meeting Arthur's eyes resolutely. "You may have heard of one another; Young came highly recommended to me as an extractor."

 

Arthur nods to the thief; he has, in fact, heard of Young, although he's obviously never worked with him before. The two men shake hands, although neither smiles; Arthur decides that he can handle having another serious person on this team, especially considering the forger, who is still grinning smugly.

 

Arthur withholds the urge to hit the other man as Walsh gestures to him; Eames doesn't bother to stand, but instead leans back in the chair, obviously only not putting his feet up on the conference table because Walsh is there. "And I understand you and Mr. Eames are acquainted, as it was he who recommended you to me."

 

The point man nods, setting his folder down on the table. "Eames." He meets the forger's eyes, and just barely refrains from rolling his own and maintaining a polite expression.

 

Eames _seriously_ considers announce that oh yes, he and Arthur are _well acquainted_ , but decides he would get decked at best for that, and leaves it for another time, perhaps not during introductions. If only for the sake of stalling the violence. Also, he doesn’t know Young and Pete well enough yet that he can assume something like that wouldn’t be taken poorly; he wouldn’t particularly care were it just to affect him, but he’s not cruel enough, even to Arthur, to put him in that position by no fault of his own.

 

So it is just a nod, a stifled smile, and a very polite, “Arthur,” that comes out instead. That one goes in the missed opportunities bin. Shame. Eames meets Arthur’s eyes for just a moment before they slide off to the side again, a very typical mannerism for him, at least in reality.

 

He hadn’t been sure, really, whether or not Arthur would come. The night before, when he’d finally stumbled into the bed of the hotel room he’s staying in, familiar in the way that all hotel rooms have become to him by now in their impersonal touches of someone else’s mediocre taste, he’d fallen asleep wondering about it, and telling himself that it didn’t matter. This morning- more like afternoon- when he’d stumbled into the shower and taken possibly 5 too many Advil, he hadn’t really had the brainpower to wonder at all. The news that the point man had taken the job had awaited him when he came to the little office. Since then, Eames has been varying shades of pleased with himself. Well, since his head stopped pounding and his brain decided maybe it wouldn’t leak out of his ears today, after all.

 

“Well, then, gentlemen,” Walsh says after a moment, “I’ll leave you to it, I have a meeting to attend and I really shouldn’t risk being seen anywhere I shouldn’t be at this particular time.” And not for the first time, Eames wonders what exactly that delicate information about Ms. Walsh was. The question is violently quashed before it makes it halfway to his mouth, but he will certainly keep wondering about it all day. No doubt about it.

 

They all nod to her, and once she leaves, there's a brief moment of silence, during which everyone stares at the new man; Arthur looks to Young rather pointedly. He didn't sign onto this to be any sort of leader. "What's the plan?" he asks shortly, assuming they've come up with at least the skeleton of one by this point in the game. He's the one arriving late to the party, as it were.

 

An hour or so later, once he's been briefed to his satisfaction on all of the details they have so far, the group files out of the meeting room, or rather the architect and Young do, leaving Arthur to spread out the folder, which apparently has what his predecessor had discovered thus far, out on the conference table. It also leaves him alone with Eames, who looks as though he may have fallen asleep.

 

"If tequila hits you as badly as you implied, I'm surprised you're even partially upright," the point man says finally, not looking up from booting up his laptop.

 

Eames doesn’t open his eyes at this, but then, it would be hard to go to sleep with his eyes open. One skill he never quite picked up. Not that he bothered trying. That’s just odd and a little too creepy-sounding to him, sleeping with your eyes open. Still, he’s obviously _not_ asleep (yet), because he answers a moment later.

 

Tequila. Eames recalls phoning Arthur. He even recalls leaving a message. What exactly he said is entirely beyond him but it probably wasn’t any more awful than usual because here the point man sits, and he hasn’t indicated any desire to do violence upon Eames. Well, any more than usual.

 

“Frankly, so am I,” Eames admits. He pauses, considers letting it go at that, and then reconsiders, adding thoughtfully, “But then, I have always had a very good recovery time.”

 

There's a very long pause at that, during which Arthur's fingers slow on his keyboard, then falter... and then he deletes about ten keystrokes.

 

There are many responses he could make to that, many which either agree with, compare, or mock that statement. But any of those veer into territory where things... will undoubtedly end badly. It always does. This is a job that will take a week or less. Best to stay all-business. What happened was in a dream, and he should be glad that it hadn't come up in the group discussion. He'll undoubtedly be hearing about it for the remainder of his times working with the forger.

 

Those days are fuzzy, in Arthur's mind, perhaps intentionally so. But he has not forgotten their conversations, nor their... other activities. And he's not in any sort of mood to kid about it, either way. "Good. Then you can go back to work, since you're feeling so much better." It's said rather gruffly, and intended as a dismissal, even though he's certain that much will be ignored.

 

Even with his eyes still closed, Eames has no problem hearing the dismissal, or noting the way he’d caused Arthur to falter a bit. He would feel more accomplished about that if he had less of a headache. Or if he could remember what in the world he said to Arthur in that voicemail. Obviously something about tequila. Obviously also something about the job. Who knows? It’s not important. Strictly speaking. He’s just… curious.

 

“I _am_ working, love,” he says without opening his eyes or moving, fighting off the grin that had wanted to appear at annoying Arthur in any capacity. Eames would point to the file, but he doesn’t know where it is without opening his eyes, and he’s not about to. He will in a few minutes, when he goes to stand; practice makes perfect and there’s no practice for a forgery quite like a dream.

 

So instead, he taps his temple to indicate that he is working in his mind. “Jonas Cooper.” The mark’s boyfriend, owner of a small but elite art gallery in the city, as Arthur well knows, is the man Eames will be Forging. “Spent all of yesterday and the day before getting the bloke’s coffee, taking messages, and fighting with agents for him. Don’t envy his permanent assistant her job, let me say. Bit of a nutter. Is the subject of surprisingly few lawsuits, but I suppose being a twat is no reason to sue.” Now he does grin. “Ought to be great fun.”

 

Pointedly ignoring the 'love,' Arthur spends a moment listening to this summary and finally nods. All right, so the forger has actually been working. He'll allow that. "Sounds right up your alley," he agrees drily. "Shouldn't be too much of a stretch for you."

 

A slight exaggeration, although only a slight one. He doesn't think Eames himself would disagree that he's indeed a nutter, as he puts it. Agents and a permanent assistant, however... the idea of so many people constantly around makes Arthur want to shudder at the thought.

 

Fun for him. Arthur has profiles to make. "I don't suppose you could recover from your hangover out in the main room." It's not a question. He knows such a thing is very unlikely, especially now that he's requested it. "Or at least actually sleep."

 

“I fully intend to go to sleep very soon,” Eames agrees. “It’s only a matter of convincing the rest of me that I ought to get up and move out there for it.” He may fully intend to practice, too, but a nap sounds lovely and he’s wavering as to whether or not he _really_ needs to practice right now or if maybe he could nap and _then_ practice. Via another nap.

 

And as for a nutter being right up his alley, well. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t expected that. And he really won’t argue. “Status as nutter and twat notwithstanding, even the hardest working hungover artist needs a nap now and again, I’m sure Jonas would agree.” But even as he says it, Eames is forcing his eyes open and his legs to support him as he groans to his feet.

 

He’s made it almost entirely out of the room before the comment comes. But then, Eames can never keep his mouth shut, really, except in cases of extreme boredom. He pauses, in the doorway, turns to eye the back of Arthur’s head, and says, “Good to see you again, darling.” And has disappeared around the corner before the point man can even turn to scowl at him.

 

And scowl he does, with a great deal of emphasis, in fact. His displeasure is made very clear in the murderous look he sends the doorway, which is probably wondering what it could have done to deserve such treatment.

 

God, he hates that endearment. Turning back to his computer, he ignores the urge to hit something (preferably Eames' face) and drags a hand over the back of his neck, leaning over the table ostensibly to read something on one of the papers he'd spread out.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, through the window, he sees movement, and turns his head very slightly to watch, eyes narrowed, as the forger sprawls out in a chair at the closest desk, feet propped up... and facing Arthur, blatantly with one eye open and peeking in at him.

 

Arthur's scowl intensifies. He ignores the other man for at least... two minutes, before stalking over to drop the blinds down over those particular windows, not even sparing the forger a glance as he does so and returning to his work.

 

Stopping to fill a little paper cup at the water cooler against the wall, Pete looks torn for a moment, but then says, appearing a bit nervous (but just as obviously trying to keep his voice down), "Dude... doesn't seem like he likes you much."

 

"I loathe him with every fiber of my being." Arthur's voice echoes out from the office, dry as the Sahara, before Eames can respond, the first thing he's said since arriving that is anything short of professional and work-related.

 

“Thank you, Arthur dear, this is a personal conversation,” Eames calls, and it’s only with a great deal of effort that he manages to keep the amusement out of his voice.

 

Eames then turns to Pete, eyeing the young man for a moment. Kid, really. The architects always seem so young to him. Probably because they don’t last long in this job, or architecture is best done at a young age, Eames doesn’t really know. Architecture was never really his strong suit. Pete seems okay, a bit socially awkward… and he did just call Eames “dude.” Safe to say, that is not a common occurrence in Eames’ life.

 

So naturally, the Forger regards him for a moment, wondering if he is indeed a ‘dude,’ what that entails, and how to make it go away. In the end he lets it go, because frankly, harassing the fellow over odd forms of address seems a bit hypocritical, Even to Eames. So instead, quite seriously, he carries on the conversation. Without Arthur’s input.

 

“He loathes me with every fiber of his being,” Eames repeats after a moment, quite certain that his epitaph will read, ‘but at least he was a _funny_ jackass.’

 

From inside the office, there is the sound of a handgun's safety being clicked off, and then a bullet snapping into place in the chamber.

 

Obviously Pete recognizes this sound, because even though he has thus far in his career only heard it before in a dream, he recognizes the prelude to bullets beginning to fly. A bit pale, he looks down at Eames, then back at the covered window, when Arthur's voice finally replies, "I know exactly where you're sitting."

 

Eames doesn’t believe even slightly that Arthur would shoot him, and _especially_ not in front of an unknown like Pete. Too many variables, too unplanned for the point man, and besides, Eames knows deep down Arthur thinks he’s funny. Very deep. Subterranean. Subsubterranean, maybe. Whatever comes below subterranean, that is where Arthur thinks he’s funny.

 

Of course, there is always a chance that he’d shoot him in the leg or something else not mandatory for living. But as Eames wouldn’t take well to being a cripple and Arthur has no way of knowing whether or not he’d react by recovering and then hobbling off of the roof of a 20-story building, Eames doubts it.

 

“Of course you do,” Eames says, and it’s not condescending, because he believes Arthur knows where he is sitting with no little accuracy. “Just be quick about it, won’t you? It’ll be a bit of work finding another forger and training him up properly. Good luck finding one with half my talent, love.”

 

"Why don't you use that talent to actually get some more work done?" Arthur suggests calmly from within the office. "The way the rest of us are trying to. Right, Pete?"

 

The younger man looks startled to be included in the conversation, and scuttles backward, water sloshing a bit in his paper cup as he retreats to his desk. "Right. Yeah. Work, that thing I'm doing."

 

Inside the other room, Arthur spends a bit more than a brief moment missing Ariadne's ease of bantering with them, but then shakes it off, returning to his investigations and not saying anything further to Eames. Besides, Ariadne is graduated and working with a real, honest-to-God architecture firm. Nothing he's heard (and he's made it a point to hear a lot from Paris) tells him she's been doing any dreamwork.

 

Eames watches Pete scamper off with one eye open, withholding a smirk. No surprise there, he supposes; what little he knows of Pete doesn’t make him seem like an overly brave sort. Arthur just scared the wits out of him. Not particularly nice of him, but Eames leaves the comment on that to himself, not wanting to scare off AND insult the poor thing.

 

“Work, yes,” Eames agrees. But instead of getting up, his other second eye just closes. They ought to be a matched set, the way he sees it. “Right after the nap.”

 

The only response from the other room is a snort, but after that they both return to their separate activities, those that don't involve bickering. Arthur becomes absorbed in his work, taking copious notes, making charts, and generally just organizing... everything. It's his job, and he intends to do it damn well, as always.

 

Some four or five hours later- he hadn't been paying attention to his watch when he'd started- he hears the door close out in the main warehouse. With too many enemies who'd love to have his head, quite literally, he stands silently, lifting his gun from the table and slipping out into the main area, still covered. But the room is empty, barring a still-sleeping Eames at the desk, apparently too unconscious to notice that it's dark outside and well past the time to be done for the day.

 

The forger is leaning back a bit on the back legs of his chair, snoring quietly as he's been for several hours, now, and Arthur can't stifle the desire to finally pay him back for standing there and laughing each time Yusuf had demonstrated the sedative's non-effect on inner ear function prior to the Fischer job. Each time he'd woken, crashing to the floor, Eames had stood there, leaning against a table and laughing his ass off.

 

Well, not to sound too trite, but payback's a bitch. He steps silently so that he's within range of the other man's chair legs and hooks one foot around one of them, yanking sharply back. Eames' chair tips over backwards, and he lands on the floor with a loud crash (and no little swearing). Amused, Arthur replaces the safety on his gun and puts it back in its holster, raising his brows at the forger. "Apparently tequila's also hell on your equilibrium."

 

Whether or not he’d deserved that doesn’t register with Eames upon waking to falling back onto the ground, chair and all (luckily it’s the chair more than his head that breaks his fall). The overwhelming urge to get up off the chair and use it to throw at Arthur _does_ register, blearily, but then so does Arthur carrying that gun around, unholstered and all. Bad idea, then.

 

Eames is far above muttering to himself, but not so much above the halfhearted kick, easily dodged, that he throws in Arthur’s direction from his spot on the floor, where he is nursing a bruised head and a wounded pride. Tequila might not have been the cause of his falling, but the aftereffects are certainly not helping him wake up with anything resembling speed. He glowers blearily up at Arthur and mourns the abrupt loss of his nap.

 

“Something sure as hell is,” he says, and it is _not_ a mutter. It’s just surly. He glowers a bit more, but then abruptly yawns, and the surly loses out in favor of bleary. He nods in the direction of the quickly disappearing gun. “Planning on shooting me in my sleep? Not particularly satisfying, d’imagine.”

 

"I'm not going to shoot you," Arthur says mildly, replacing his leather jacket (as per usual, he'd removed it during the course of the afternoon's work). "That would be too quick. Unless it was in the kneecaps or the ass, maybe. Shoot off a finger." He sounds completely casual as he picks up his briefcase, not needing to check through it again. He knows he's collected everything he'll need to get some more work done that evening.

 

Shoot Eames, no. Kick chairs out from under him at every opportunity until he's paid back all six times Eames had done it to him or had laughed at it happening, definitely. He never claimed not to be vindictive. "I am going to find a hotel room. I assume you have one; the bed there might be more comfortable for you while you sleep it off."

 

Tiredly, Eames runs a hand through his hair, messing it up more than an afternoon (and evening) of napping in a desk chair had, but he doesn’t seem to mind much; he’ll wander off to the bathroom in a while anyway, and undoubtedly fix it while he’s there. He’s starting to wake up, now that he’s not reeling from being tipped back onto the floor, and he spends a moment considering suggesting Arthur find _his_ hotel room and _no one_ sleeps, but something stops him, even though it would be pure harassment.

 

Not questioning that, Eames shrugs. “Just finished sleeping it off,” he points out, climbing off of the chair altogether and right it before using it to lever himself to his feet just long enough to lean back against the desk and stretch a bit. “Might as well get some work in today. You’ll have to be the only one enjoying a hotel room.”

 

He’s silent for a moment, almost allowing all of that to go without another, more blatant, quip, but then eyes Arthur for a moment. “In the ass, really? Hmm.” He doesn’t add anything else. He doesn’t have to. All of the suggestive comments are there in the tone of his ‘hmm.’ “Kneecaps, maybe. I can see that.”

 

Deciding that no direct response to the in the ass quip is the best response, Arthur shrugs. "It gets messy, otherwise." Definitely not a pointed remark at all. Er. Mental clearing of throat.

 

Assuming that Eames will work for a few hours, himself, and then probably go to get himself as drunk as he'd undoubtedly been the night before, thus continuing the cycle of hangover-brief sobriety-drunkenness that the forger seems to prefer, the point man shrugs. "Tomorrow, then."

 

Mentioning that he's going to get something to eat, in any sort of a pointed way, would be idiotic. And sentimental. It doesn't matter if Eames spends most of this job hungover, as long as he gets his work done. It's not as though Arthur is here to spend time with him, or some other ridiculousness, because that would be... well. A pain in the ass, and not the more pleasant sort. He'd recommended Arthur because Arthur is the best at what he does.

 

Leaving it at that, he turns to go, not sure what he'd expected from that conversation, but still feeling oddly... displeased with it. Which is idiotic.

 

Heaving a mental sigh, Eames watches him go, not even spending excessive time checking the fit of his trousers. (He does a little, though, can’t help it, he will say one thing for the man’s obsessively impeccable dressing: damn but it shows off his ass.) Gets messy otherwise. Point taken. Maybe not gladly, but he can take a hint when it suits him. And though yes, he might find Arthur attractive, and nothing in the world is going to stop him from sexually harassing the man, he’s not about to force himself upon Arthur.

 

So he lets him go, wandering towards the chairs next to the PASIV. Time to get some actual work done. Maybe a few hours of Jonas will be exactly what he needs. “Night, Arthur,” he says, and this time, maybe it is a bit of a mutter.

 

Catching that, Arthur turns back, hand on the doorknob, to stare at the forger for a minute, startled despite himself. Eames is already wrapping a tourniquet around his arm, inserting the needle into his wrist, and finally deciding that Eames had meant nothing by that, that tone, he swallows very slightly and turns to go; as is usual, he assumes that everyone he works with is as professionally-minded and et cetera as he is unless proven otherwise. They're here to work. Nothing more. Eames doesn't... regret that what had happened in the dream hadn't continued on in reality. Could he?

 

The point man's confident stride falters in the outer office, and he comes to a stop on the old carpet. Surely not. But he turns back to look at the closed door anyway. The PASIV will have started by now. It's too late to go back and ask if the man would want a hamburger. He should go back to his hotel room. What he definitely should not do is turn around and join Eames in his dream.

 

His willpower really does need a reboot, he decides, as he slides the needle into his arm and lays back on the chair next to Eames', his eyes already drifting closed.

 

The room he wakes up in- or, well, wakes in a manner of speaking- is dimly lit, more of a hallway than a room, really, with only one doorway and a few windows, showing a not quite dreary and yet rather rainy landscape beyond, just rain obscuring green for as far as they eye can see. Eames isn’t there, though there is only one way he could have gone; the only door in the room stands open, and at stark odds with the almost hotel-like blandness of the hallway. It’s oddly ornate, wooden, and old-seeming, completely out of place against the wallpaper and cheap carpet.

 

The contrast continues on into the room beyond in any number of ways; this room is a real room, not particularly large but not tiny, either, and with traces here and there of the personality behind it: the lighting, for one, is oddly reminiscent of stage lights in places, leaving some corners dim and some bright enough to show too much detail. The curtains on the windows, too, are on odd mixture of stage curtains and the sort of curtains one would find in an old manor, to match the door, perhaps. The floors are plain and wooden, but there’s a rug in one corner where an old, beaten-up leather couch sits, and the rug resembles something you would find in a pay-by-the-hour motel. Next to that, an honest-to-god chaise and a record player. No books or games or writing utensils, no computers. One old television hidden off in the corner.

 

But that all comes across as an afterthought, next to wall across the room when Arthur steps inside: the entire wall is one giant mirror. Just one pane, something that wouldn’t be done often in the real world for fear of breaking and difficulty moving. Then, of course, there are mirrors scattered about the walls, which when not mirrored are old paneled wood instead of wallpaper, one section even with a copy of Monet’s Water _Lilies_. Of course, next to that is a movie poster for _Monty Python and the Life of Brian,_ but class only goes so far and it’s half obscured by a standing mirror anyway.

 

As dreams go, it really isn’t much of one, at least in terms of size and scope, but it’s Eames’ through and through, very obviously where he goes each time he goes off to practice his Forgeries, and who knows when else?

 

There is, of course, a vanity off to the side of the room, and that is where a figure sits, a figure which, at the moment, is taller than Mr. Eames, and decidedly skinnier. He has dark eyes, much like Arthur’s but full of emotion, a handsome enough face, and artistically wild blonde hair. Catching the sight of movement out of the corner of his eye, he turns to look at Arthur in the doorway… and for a moment, there is no recognition in his eyes at all, just confusion and a little indignation that looks like it could grow exponentially into a _lot_ of indignation. But then he blinks once, then more forcibly a second time, and the expression melts away into something familiar until Eames stares back at him through the dark eyes. Still confused, but certainly Eames. “Odd, I feel strangely sober for spectres of the subconscious to be popping up,” he concludes after a moment.

 

There's a pause, as Arthur considers the potential benefits of trying to fuck with Eames a little and pretend to actually be a projection, but he changes his mind for multiple reasons. The first, of course, being that he has no desire to test exactly how bad he would be at that sort of acting, and the second being that he doesn't actually want to know if Eames often sees a projection of him wandering about.

 

"You are sober, for once," he says finally, peering up at the _Life of Brian_ poster and wondering at the lack, in Eames' subconscious, of any sort of a liquor cabinet or poker table. But this is clearly where he goes to work, and whatever else he does here. Obviously not drinking and gambling. "I'm not a projection. Just curious."

 

Not a term which can usually be applied to Arthur, and he knows it. It's true. But just now, he is, and he finally turns to look at Eames... or rather Eames as Jonas Cooper. It's eerie, but not as eerie as it once was, and somehow, the forger is still visible there. That worries the point man a bit, as he's not entirely certain he wants to know someone quite as well as he apparently has gotten to know the forger without consciously deciding to do so.

 

But he shoves that aside for the moment, more interested in this place. He raises his brows, meaning it when he adds, "As long as you don't mind. I can go." The familiar six-shot appears in his hand without his sparing the idea more than a fraction of a thought. It's old habit, when it's necessary to escape a dream at an instant's notice. He tries not to think about why he might want to escape this one, when he's really only just snooping.

 

Eames (Jonas) grimaces at that a bit, shaking his head and turning to the mirror on the vanity. He puts down the expensive sunglasses Jonas wears all over creation and peers at himself in the mirror. A moment ago, he was Jonas Cooper. Now, it’s just a part, just Eames done up as Jonas, and so the switching back is an easy trick, like pulling off a mask, no moment when the lines are blurred and there’s really no one at all in there. Eames has found that he likes that moment, and it scares him, it scares him enough that he typically comes back to himself before he drops the act fully, as per just now, bypassing it entirely.

 

Himself again, at least nominally (if we’re getting existential), Eames turns back to Arthur, eyeing him up and down shortly. Would his projection of Arthur pretend to be otherwise? What would his projection of Arthur be doing here, anyway? Nothing, Eames concludes, because he would never expect Arthur to be “curious.” It’s that statement that decides him.

 

That, and he has no desire to see Arthur shoot himself, dream or no dream. It’s just not a thing he’d care to experience more than necessary, people he knows shooting themselves, shooting people he knows. Leaves a mark, you know. Subconsciously. Which can be a problem, considering.

 

“I don’t mind,” he says slowly after a moment, and realizes it’s true after he says it. He _doesn’t_ mind that Arthur is here, and that is an odd sort of thing. Work is one thing, allowing people into controlled subconscious. But this is not a place people normally visit. In fact, no one has ever shown up here before but Eames. The fact that he doesn’t mind Arthur’s presence gives Eames an odd sense of nervousness, like something bad is going to happen but he doesn’t know what. He fights that off, curious himself.

 

Fighting to recall the conversation before the dream only takes a moment. Long practice, after all. Arthur had been leaving. This is not normal, and Eames doesn’t know what this reaction means. “Thought you were off to a hotel.”

 

Shrugging again, Arthur looks away from Eames, an odd role reversal from the usual, when Eames avoids eye contact. "For once," he says, trying to sound casual, "sitting alone in a hotel room, working, didn't sound all that appealing." And that, he's certain, is a statement he has never made before, awake or asleep.

 

Water lilies. Not the bolder art he would have expected from Eames, to be honest. This is interesting. So is the dark wood panelling on the walls, the chaise, the touches of class mixed in with what are obviously items borrowed from motel rooms and other inexpensive establishments by his subconscious. But it fits, somehow, and Arthur is not certain how that is, exactly, but it does.

 

He deliberately doesn't look into any of the mirrors, despite one making up an entire wall. It's never been something he likes to do, to stare at his reflection. Maybe he's afraid of what he'll see there, in himself. He doesn't know. He never has. But there's a reason why the only mirrors in all of his apartments and flats are only located above the sink in the bathroom, where one is necessary.

 

"Wouldn't have pegged you for a record guy," he observes after a moment, nodding to the record player in the corner and then dropping down onto the chaise beside it. He's not lounging back, but he's comfortable enough sitting now that he's been given permission to stay.

 

Eames stares back at Arthur for a moment, at a temporary loss. It has nothing to do with records, but rather with what he'd said the moment before. Sitting alone in a hotel room working didn't sound appealing? To _Arthur?_ What does that mean? Eames finds that he has no idea how to interpret that comment, none at all, and spends a bit too long wondering on it before realizing that he is searching for meaning in something Arthur had just said to him like a schoolgirl with a crush and that is _ridiculous_.

 

So instead, he moves on to the top of records, blinking and forcing his attention to the record player next to the chaise. "There's something very authentic about a record," he explains. Which should be odd, really, because there is very little about Eames in general that one could describe as "authentic." Or perhaps that's why it really _isn't_ odd at all. "With records, you play your favorites over and over, and the quality decreases for it, and you learn all of the little spots where it's mucked up but still know how it ought to be, in your head. They wear. It's very personal."

 

He nods in the direction of the dream record player. "In a dream, they're all pristine." Making it a very good way to tell if one is in a dream or not.

 

Not having expected all of that from Eames, it's true, Arthur takes a minute to consider it. He's normally a fan of the more modern iPod, preferring to be able to have all of his music with him in case of a change in mood. But it's true, that records are much more personal in the sense in which Eames had described them. He'd never looked at it in that way before.

 

And he's not sure what to say to learning something so personal about the forger. It's very intimate, to say the least, and he's not sure how to respond. "It makes my iPod look boring," he admits finally, looking up at the other man. Way up, since Eames is still standing. His eyes are amused, though his expression is even as ever when he adds, "The records have character. It seems appropriate that you prefer them." Whereas he, Arthur, prefers the bland, always like-new qualities of digital songs.

 

“I suppose so,” Eames says, not missing the amusement there. Eames has never been lacking for character, in one way or another. On the other hand, implying that Arthur is lacking character is not sensible at all, as were Arthur lacking in character he would not be particularly interesting and Eames would never have begun his apparent life-goal of harassing Arthur to the point of getting himself shot.

 

After a moment, he leans back against the vanity, ignoring what he can see of his reflections. Reflections are odd things, in dreams, for Eames at least. Odd, but necessary, because without them Eames would never be quite certain who he was.

 

“An Ipod’s a bit easier to get through airport security, is the thing,” he points out, smirking just a little. “So I’ll accept that in a pinch. Anyway, it’s not the Ipod that’s boring or not, it’s what you put on it.”

 

"If that's a hint that my music is boring, I'd like to know what you think I listen to," Arthur replies mildly, one brow going up. "I don't think I've ever mentioned my musical tastes before." In point of fact, he doesn't even know what genre Eames prefers, only that he apparently would rather listen to his music on records.

 

He doesn't disagree that an iPod is easier to travel with, either. That's, for the most part, why he likes it, as previously mentioned. He can keep his entire music collection on it, as well as backed up on computers at all of his residences and on the laptop that travels with him. It makes him feel better, knowing it's all secure and he won't lose it.

 

“Indeed you have not,” Eames agrees. “It wasn’t a hint. Just a truth. Somehow I don’t think you’ve got however many gigabytes of boring something-or-other on there.”

 

On the other hand, Eames has no idea what music he would consider “boring,” unless he’d put several hours’ worth of elevator music on there. Maybe standard pop or rock music, but then again, recently Eames hasn’t minded pop music so much. But he doubts Arthur would have that, either. In fact, now that Eames gives it some thought, he has no idea what might be on Arthur’s Ipod. Which is a bit strange, and frustrating to admit, as reading people is a skill of his, and that had nearly been a challenge to take a stab at guessing.

 

So Eames regards Arthur for a moment, considering. What in the world would the man have on his Ipod? It could be anything. “Nothing so dull as four Katy Perry albums and the rest grunge that went out with the 90’s,” he concludes. “Beyond that, I haven’t the faintest, love. You play it very close to the chest.” Musical taste isn’t something you read in the way a person moves and speaks.

 

That earns him a bit of a half-smile, and the point man shrugs again. He's never exactly been one for personal sharing, after all. As he'd said, he'd doubted Eames knew his musical preferences, but it's nice to hear that the other man doesn't predict them to be boring. "Jazz," he says finally, after a pause. "Ragtime. I discovered Duke Ellington first, and it all sort of... followed that."

 

His smile grows a little wider. "Although I had to listen to rap in the '90s. I hated it then, but it's not so bad when I hear it now, in a nostalgic kind of way." He's pretty sure he still knows most of the songs by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, anyway.

 

Eames watches him for a moment, a bit startled by that, but strangely not by the first bit of information. Jazz… yes, he can see that. Jazz is not boring at all. In that, Arthur didn’t let him down. Eames doesn’t mind jazz; it’s not his favorite genre, but then, he doesn’t know what is, really. It doesn’t strike him as odd that Arthur would be fond of it.

 

The rest, though, takes a moment to sink in. The ridiculousness of _Arthur_ listening to Marky Mark and the Funky bunch does not elude Eames. In fact it hits him so hard that he asks, “Whatever for?” before his brain realizes that asking that is _absolutely_ prying and he convinces himself not to.

 

Amused at the disbelieving expression on the forger's face, Arthur lets his grin escape his hold a bit, leaning back a bit on the chaise. He looks completely unembarrassed, and rather surprisingly unbothered, when he replies, "Well, the guys who were teaching me to boost and chop cars were all about as big as you are, and I was eleven."

 

He shrugs. "I didn't get to pick the music. And I listened to whatever they thought was cool."

 

Eames considers that for a moment, supposing, when you put it that way, it makes sense. To be honest, Eames hadn’t given a great deal of thought to Arthur’s upbringing, his childhood. He doesn’t think about that sort of thing when he studies a person, really. It’s more reactions and mannerisms; insights into psychology are not uncommon, of course not, but they rarely extend to Eames wondering _why_ a person is that way, not unless they’re a mark. Not people he works with—and especially not people like Arthur, capable of the sorts of feats of research that Eames finds so frightening and baffling at once. He wouldn’t want that kind of curiosity turned back upon himself.

 

But he would be lying if he said he’d _never_ wondered, and the curiosity comes creeping in, unbidden. Eames is a curious sort of person, it’s true. He would never deny it. And hearing that, he has to wonder why Arthur was out “boosting” and “chopping “ cars when he was eleven. Eames was certainly not doing any such thing when he was eleven. Nothing even remotely close. His foray into the criminal world came much later, a bit of a trial by fire. Hard lessons, but best learned quickly, he supposes, or you risk never learning them before you end up dead.

 

Most people in this line of work, cliché as it may be, didn’t grow up in what you’d normally label completely stable homes. Eames knows that is true, and generally assumes that most people he works with are as fucked up or worse than he is. And Arthur… well. He had to end up a criminal for a reason, because he is the sort of man that Eames could see having done great, absolutely legal things, loyally and with honor his entire life.

 

But even knowing that, Eames can absolutely imagine Arthur doing those things at age eleven, because frankly, the man can be made of steel when he wants to be. So rather than appearing startled at this, or concerned, or any such thing, Eames leans a little more on the vanity until he’s more sitting than standing, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, I can see how you would let them choose the music, in that case.” Rather wise for one so young. “I do feel a bit of sympathy for your poor young ears, however.” Ugh. Rap. Not so much Eames’ favorite.

 

As he looks up at the _Water Lilies_ print again, one of Arthur's shoulders rises and then falls. "They're not bad memories." Music aside, that is. But at that point, going out with the gang of young men he'd begun hanging around with... at eleven, Arthur had thought he was the coolest kid he knew. And he'd learned some valuable lessons, about stealing cars and about life in general. Namely, how to survive.

 

"I needed the money. And it was better than being at home." Thoughts of his mother back then make him recoil from those particular recollections, however, and he turns back to Eames, brows raised.

 

"What about you? Music-wise?" He doubts he'll get more than that from the forger, anyway; what he's discovered about the man in his background investigations in the years he's known the man is that before Eames the thief appeared in the criminal world, he had not existed in any form before. He won't press it, because frankly, there's obviously a reason why Eames had decided to create his entire identity, and he doesn't want to pry. But he'll admit to some curiosity. Maybe more than is strictly healthy.

 

Thoroughly intrigued, in that horrible sort of curious way that even Eames would feel bad about asking outright about, Eames can’t help but wonder why running about with that sort at the age of eleven was better than being at home. But at the same time, he isn’t sure he _really_ wants to know. And he would never dare ask. Arthur has already been exceedingly forthcoming with him, and Eames knows he’ll never be able to return the favor easily. The least he can do is let a subject drop when he obviously wants to drop it.

 

Private about his own past he may be, music Eames can discuss. He does love music, he supposes the record player gives that away. He grins a little. “I’m afraid I find it hard to be specific,” he admits. Eames’ Ipod is, frankly, like a mad hodgepodge, entire playlists of random songs vying for space with intricate compilations of very specific mood-inducing pieces.

 

Unlike Arthur, he doesn’t have a favorite genre, exactly. He has _favorites_ , but they rarely match. “Music is very much tied to memory and emotion. What I like depends greatly on what I’m doing or who I’m supposed to be at the time.” It hasn’t always been quite like that, exactly, but it’s always been one mood or feeling or another determining the song choice, for Eames. “In the 90’s I had an uncanny soft spot for Pink Floyd and _La bohème_ , not at once, mind you. Last week I spent three days listening to Lady Gaga until I could finally turn it off. I am convinced there is something subliminal in her music, or possibly her clothing, if indeed it qualifies as clothing at all.”

 

Arthur vaguely recalls seeing pictures of that particular artist. He thinks. He doesn't generally pay much mind to pop culture. "Is she the one I saw in a picture... dressed like Kermit the Frog?"

 

He has vague recollections of a song repeatedly being played on his radio with some sort of techno beat and... possibly lyrics relating to S&M, but that was all that had caught his attention at the time. "Oh, wait, they kept playing that song in every cab I took... the one about violent sex?"

 

Eames’ smile is somewhere between amused and fond, but either way, it ends up being a very large smile. Arthur doesn’t quite know who Lady Gaga is. It’s not surprising at all when one thinks about it. And also very charming in an Arthur sort of fashion. And of course the only song he recalls is the one about violent sex. And he describes it as the song about violent sex, as though that doesn’t describe 80% of pop music since 1980.

 

“Yes,” Eames says when he is certain he isn’t going to laugh as he speaks. “ _Bad Romance_ , I believe. Very catchy. Perhaps I’ll send you some youtube videos. You’re not getting the full effect without seeing her. She’s wonderful. Batshit and completely attention seeking… and wonderful.”

 

Arthur's brows tick upwards just slightly, but he nods, figuring that he can watch them... what, perhaps once, and then delete them, if they're as horrible as he suspects they might be. Probably will be. Bleh.

 

"I look forward to it." His voice is dry, but he's not scowling, at least, eyeing the theatre-style curtains, and then the much older-looking, much more expensive-looking variations with some interest. Again, he doesn't comment, but... well. His curiosity abounds, he supposes.

 

They stay quiet for a few minutes, which is oddly... not uncomfortable. Arthur would say that this is the first time such a thing has occurred in their acquaintance, but that's not true. They had a week partially populated by long periods of silence which were not uncomfortable, much like this. But finally, when his mind starts to turn in that direction, he decides that he should probably go. Eames hasn't sat down, but is still leaning against his vanity, and Arthur supposes that's probably a hint. He stands, and is suddenly awkward, nodding to the other man. "Well, I should... let you work."

 

Work. Right. Eames recalls, suddenly, that that was what he had intended to do, before Arthur had… dropped in. Because despite the fact that this is _wholly_ unprecedented (maybe not wholly…), Eames had quickly disregarded the oddness of it, and totally forgotten what he’d been up to. Despite also standing in the dream room he only goes to in order to work.

 

He’d also quickly disregarded the questions… well. He hadn’t quite gotten a real answer regarding the reason Arthur had come in the first place. That is what Eames really wants to know, but… he has no idea how to ask without sounding foolish, or like an arse, which is easy for him. He stands fully, too, then, practically able to watch the awkwardness creep up on the other man. It’s catching, but Eames is good at ignoring and/or overcoming that sort of thing.

 

What he wants to do is ask the point man why he’d come here in the first place, or even why he’d taken the job. What comes out instead is, “I don’t mind the company.” Said in a much more confident tone than he’s actually feeling, because he has no idea why he _shouldn’t_ mind the company, here, and he doesn’t want it to seem like he’s… he doesn’t know. Pressuring the man to stay or something. That would make this awkward.

 

Or rather, more awkward than it already is, at least for Arthur. He wouldn't mind staying, either, not that he can put words to the feeling, but Eames had sounded like he really meant that he wouldn't mind. He's not sure what to say, now, as his eyes move all of their own accord, to meet the forger's.

 

Something shifts in the room's atmosphere, then, and Arthur swears he can actually feel his fingertips start to tingle, to itch, almost. He wants to touch Eames, suddenly- well, not suddenly, the feeling's been there all afternoon, but this is the first time his physical reaction has been out of his control. But the thought of it, for no comprehendible reason, freezes him in place. The ache is there, to actually physically touch someone- it's nearly always there, which is why when he actually does come into close contact with someone, the dam breaks and everything happens in a rush, the way it had during the Fischer job. And he wants it, wants the warmth of physical contact so badly, especially when he knows exactly how good it feels to touch the forger...

 

He's overreacting, he reminds himself, pulling all of those thoughts short with a jerk. First of all, he shouldn't use Eames that way. If he does this again, here, in a dream, when they're not actually awake and it's not happening in reality... that amounts to using someone. Using Eames. That thought is unexpectedly unpleasant.

 

Before he can throw his common sense away on an impulse, he shakes his head, thinking of the handgun, which is suddenly in his hand, cool metal and heavy steel. A gun is always a comforting thing, even in a dream. He doesn't need anything, or anyone else, only that weight. "That's all right. I should go. Thanks, though..." Before Eames has time to reply, he lifts the gun to his temple, closes his eyes, and pulls the trigger.

 

Eames averts his eyes as quickly as possible, but the sound is still very distinct, and he catches it out of the corner of his eyes. It’s not the first time Eames has seen someone blow their brains out in a dream. It’s not even the first time he’s seen _Arthur_ do it. But for some reason, it disturbs him on a deeper level than any of the other things he’s seen in dreams. Maybe it’s because no one ever hesitates. No one takes that half-second to wonder if maybe they should double-check that this isn’t reality. Even Eames doesn’t, doesn’t pause any more than he pauses killing other people or projections.

 

So maybe it’s hypocritical, but Eames still winces slightly at it, blinking a couple of times. He has no idea what had just happened there, really. That hadn’t been your typical brush-off, but it had been _something_ , he hadn’t imagined that. And even though it hadn’t been what he’d prepared himself to expect- total refusal and a retreat to proper work environment decorum- it still leaves Eames alone, and wondering what the fuck he was even expecting. Harassing the man is one thing, and expected. But this, whatever it is he had apparently been very poorly trying to do, it’s just… stupid. Fucking stupid of him.

 

Feeling rather a lot like a complete fool, Eames sighs, running a hand through his hair and catching sight of himself in one of the side vanity mirrors. He looks disturbingly like himself, which, contrary to most people, is not what he normally looks like. Annoyed, Eames spends a moment glowering at his reflection before turning entirely around and sitting down in front of the vanity mirrors once again, just the one poker chip appearing in hand as he eyes the multitudes of reflections. The ones furthest away, the vague shapes hidden in the background, don’t look quite like Eames, and after he spends another minute of staring at the mirror, not really thinking about anything at all, neither do any of the other reflections. They all sit where they should, given the physics of the three mirrors, but they’re all reflections of different people. Only the one right in front of him matches his actual appearance. The main reflections in the two side mirrors, too, are different, but not as drastically so as the rest. Eames ignores those with the ease of long practice, just sort of… staring and letting his mind wander anywhere but where it had just been. Wondering what would happen if he reached up and touched his hand to one of the reflections, through the mirror. This is a dream; they could switch places. But who, then, would wake up when the timer went off?

 

He doesn’t really know how long it is before he puts the poker chip back in his pocket and straightens his posture, looking into the reflections with a purpose now. He spots Jonas, not far from the front, and when he says, “There you are,” Jonas says it, too, and then there’s no difference between the two, like the mirror had been a barrier between them that had fallen. And now Jonas is staring back at his various reflections, thinking on his latest acquisition and the poor state of Cuban coffee in Miami as he practices his nervous tick of cleaning his expensive sunglasses.

 

The night goes by inexorably slowly for Arthur, as does the next day. He's the first one to the office, no surprise, and thus has already claimed one of the empty desks as his own. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, the desk closest to the one Eames had been using the day before had already been claimed by the architect, Pete, and so Arthur is spared the decision of whether to choose to work next to Eames or not.

 

He's drawn into his work fairly quickly, but finds it very difficult to concentrate, as it had been the night before- he'd been restless, unable to sleep, and had ended up first pacing, then making use of his hotel's treadmill as soon as its health club had opened that morning. He still feels out of sorts by the time he sits down at his newly-acquired temporary workspace, but that much would be invisible to any outside observer.

 

Thankfully, Young doesn't seem to be too much of a talker now that they all have their own specific portions of the job to be working on, and Pete seems sufficiently intimidated by Arthur the day before to bother him greatly. And the point man deliberately does not spend half the morning glancing up at the door and wondering where the forger is.

 

The morning goes by and turns into afternoon before Eames appears, wandering in and looking much less hungover than he’d appeared the day before. On the other hand, he looks exponentially more annoyed, somewhere between annoyed and amused. Three hours of following Jonas Cooper around will do that to you. Three hours during which he was painfully sober, much too sober for that sort of thing. But it paid off.

 

“Where’ve you been?” Young asks gruffly, right on schedule.

 

Eames withholds a sigh. “Following Cooper about, of course. The man is very serious about his coffee being just right.” So serious that Eames is lucky not to have had the first failed coffee thrown all over him. And Cooper is just as lucky, because not having been very deeply in character at the moment, instead of apologizing and maybe crying pitifully, Eames would probably have decked him. And though he would have deserved it, that would have been _highly_ unprofessional, and rather unlike Eames. His mood hadn’t been particularly good by then, however.

 

Normally he can bounce back rather quickly, but he supposes Jonas, though great fun to play, is still a bit much to actually deal with on a constant basis. “Saw his girlfriend for lunch.” AKA, their mark, which is perfect material for Eames. “Touching couple. Bickered the whole time. Here's to hoping they don't break up before we do the job.”

 

The forger having been following Cooper around (presumably playing assistant again) does explain the rather nicer than usual choice in suits; Arthur tries not to think about how, despite Eames' obvious bad mood, he looks very nice in it. Really, after the lecture he'd given his subconscious all damned night, you'd think he could maintain a modicum of self-control in his thoughts. Apparently not.

 

"If they do, you'd have a lot more fun playing the antagonistic ex," he points out, deciding that a break might be in order and leaning back in his chair. He's trying to find the bright side, here. "Throw a tantrum or two, swear at her." Hell, he could do that anyway, fuck things up, as a screw you to Cooper at the end of the job. Just on principle, of course.

 

Before the forger can reply to this, however, Pete pipes up tentatively. "Speaking of coffee, anyone want one? I was going to run to Starbucks." Arthur winces mentally.

 

Needless to say, this does not garner the best of reactions from Eames; somehow managing to fall into his chair and still be graceful about it, he doesn’t even pause before putting his feet up on the desk (he doesn’t seem to use desks for much more than footrests). The look he sends Pete is dead serious as he responds, “Pete, because I value you as a colleague and I’m sure you’re a nice bloke, I am going to warn you that the next person I see with coffee is going to be hit, possibly with a cricket bat because I’m feeling both violent and patriotic.” National sport and all, but he always like rugby better.

 

Pete blinks at him, opens his mouth several times, can think of nothing to say to that, and then stands, leaving quietly. Eames can only assume he will be having his coffee out of the office today.

 

As for having fun as the antagonistic ex, well, that doesn’t seem so bad to Eames. Arthur has a point, and seems to know better than to suggest anything to do with coffee, at least without the intention of annoying the shit out of Eames, which of course could easily happen. Eames nods. “Oh, believe me,” he says. “There will be tantrums regardless of their status. Perhaps I’ll throw things.”

 

"You may want to get her to show you the safe first," Arthur points out drily, although he can't help but be amused. An angry Eames is a very animated Eames, and it's startlingly... interesting to watch. He leans back over his desk, returning to his laptop, but can't help sneaking glances at the other man out of the corner of his eye; he's silent about it, not making any give-away sounds such as letting his clothes rustle or his chair squeak if it turns, but look he does.

 

The man is as attractive as he'd been four months ago, and it hits Arthur rather suddenly, despite definitely having been aware of it before this point. He recalls, very abruptly, that point on Eames' jaw, which he can see from where he sits, that made him...

 

The point man is standing suddenly, shoving back away from his desk and walking at an entirely normal pace out the door after Pete, then down the stairs and towards the bathroom farther from the office, where he proceeds to withhold the urge to hit the wall. He does, however, give into the cliche of splashing cold water on his face, which does... absolutely nothing at all, frankly, aside from leave him with a wet face and damp shirt collar. Pulling out his die, he lets it spin on the metal shelf above the sink, watching as it lands on five. Awake, then, as he'd already known.

 

Swearing under his breath, he loosens his tie a little, feeling the cool porcelain of the sink beneath his hands.

 

The next couple of days carry on… in much the same fashion, with the two men treating one another much the same as always, except for the occasional bout of friendliness that goes above and beyond, usually followed by avoidance and/or awkward moments. It’s an odd sort of indeterminate state, like they’re waiting for something to happen but also not wanting it to, and it is driving Eames, personally, completely mad. Bonkers, batshit, up a wall. He supposes he can be grateful that there is less following Jonas around in the days that follow, but he isn’t, really, because that means more time spent with the team, more time spent wondering what it is he’s done wrong or right with Arthur and why it matters at all.

 

In the end, it just comes down to the fact that Eames has no idea how to deal with this at all. And so, in true Eames fashion, one night when he arrives back at his hotel room, considering ordering in and watching HBO, Eames determines that that would not only be sad but boring as well. Fuck supper. There are more interesting things to do.

 

He makes short work of the minibar. Then- because drinking alone is also sad and boring- Eames is on his way out into the night. This is Miami, after all. Somewhere, something is happening, and Eames completely intends to find that place. Many hours later, he doesn’t really recall off the top of his head if he found what he was looking for… but it seems likely as he half-climbs, half-stumbles out of a cab. He wouldn’t be nearly so drunk if he hadn’t found whatever it was he was looking for.

 

This logic seems sound enough, and so, realizing that it’s probably late, and also he is tired and kind of hungry, Eames heads for his room… only to realize that he has absolutely no idea where that is.

 

Half an hour of fruitless searching later (no fruit at all), Arthur receives one very drunken voicemail. Again. _”Arthur! You never seem to answer your bloody phone, darling. I don’t know why you have one at all if you never answer. Or maybe it’s just me. You just don’t answer for me. Does your phone know who it is calling? Do you screen? I would ‘spect you to have… you know. One that knows…”_ He trails off, train of thought obviously lost. _“Soooo, I don’t really know where you are or where I am, really this is very silly…”_ He trails off, and then there is the sound of a thud and swearing from far away as he… appears to have dropped the phone. It takes a minute, during which there is continued swearing, and Eames sits down where he is in the hallway, finally picking the phone up again _. “’Lo? No? Still voicemail. Or I’m talking to myself. Not that I don’t do that now and again. Everyone does that, it would be odd not—well, except perhaps mutes. I suppose they have an inner dialogue going, though, but I dunno, I’ve never met anyone mute. Is that the politically correct term? Mute? That would make an int’rsting movie premise, a mute person’s inner- inner dial-”_ And the phone beeps, cutting him off.

 

Eames scowls at it, then takes a good minute or so to call back. Then he begins again at the second beep. _“AS I WAS SAYING, before I was so rudely interrupted, Arthur, Arthur love, you wouldn’t happen to remember what room’m in because I haven’t the- the slightest and they’re all sort of blurring together. Also I’m not sure what floor I’m on. That’s all. Don’t fret over it, I’ll likely have a nap here. Maybe you’re sleeping. You’re smart like that, should follow your example. Okay, cheers, pet.”_

 

There's a very long pause as Arthur, lying in bed in his undershirt and pajama pants, working with his hand weights, pauses to process everything he'd just heard. This is, apparently, very common for him when receiving drunken voicemails from Eames. Not that this is past the second occurrence of such a thing... actually, this would be the third, if he counts the two voicemails left this time as separate entities.

 

Heaving a loud sigh, he sits up, sets the weights aside on his nightstand, and slides his phone into his pajama pocket, as well as his room key, and pushing his sock-clad feet into his sneakers. There are only five floors in this hotel. It shouldn't take a great deal of trouble to find the man. It does occur to him, as he's on his way to the elevator, after checking his own floor (the third) that he doesn't have to do this. He could just let Eames fall asleep in a hallway, drunkenly passed out, to choke on his own vomit. But no, here he is, at God knows what hour of the early morning, searching his hotel in a sleeveless undershirt and sweatpants, for the most frustrating man he has ever met in his life. And Arthur has met some very special men, in the most negative sense possible.

 

He finds Eames on the second floor, in the hallway furthest from the elevators, and wonders how in God's name the man had made it that far down the hallway, just going by the look of him. Heaving another, very audible sigh, he crouches down and shakes the forger's shoulder. "Eames. _Eames_." Gray eyes flicker blearily; Arthur's narrow. "Just for the record, I'm not your pet."

 

Reaching down, he slides an arm around the other man's back, beneath his shoulders, after a very brief hesitation. He smells like scotch and sweat, but not, Arthur notes, of perfume or cologne aside from his own. Smoke, yes. Other individuals' scents, no. It's... relieving in a way Arthur would never admit to. But even he struggles a bit as he hauls Eames' near dead-weight to his feet. "Fucking hell, what do you eat? Bricks?"

 

Not surprisingly, Eames has no witty retort up his sleeve for this, as he is still mid-attempting to figure out where, exactly, Arthur came from. He was not there a minute ago, as far as Eames recalls. Also, Eames has no idea how he’d just ended up upright. It must have been Arthur because he is quite sure he had nothing to do with it. He was fairly happy where he was.

 

On the other hand, where he was didn’t have Arthur, or maybe it did, but he didn’t realize. Nor did it have Arthur’s arm around him, which Eames doesn’t mind at all, even though Arthur is trying to drag him somewhere. Eames tries to help, but he is probably hindering more than helping at this point. He is starting to wake up a little, though. Which means he will still be unhelpful, only now he'll manage speech.

 

He completely disregards the bricks comment, because… well, no, obviously not. And also, he’d been mid-trying to think if maybe he should say “hello.” Instead he wonders about whether or not Arthur can be his pet without his approval. Also where he is. “You can’t… you’re not in charge’f who my pet is or isn’t,” Eames points out. (Or… slurs.) Then he pauses. He is about to ask where they are going. Somewhere along the way, what he’d intended to say is hijacked, and what comes out is, “You’re not wearing a shirt ‘n tie.”

 

"That would be because it's one in the morning," Arthur says tiredly, heading in the general direction of the elevator banks. He sighs again, more dramatically this time, and adds in his usual monotone (though not without the appropriate dryness), "And thus you know for certain that I don't sleep that way."

 

Of course he has no idea if Eames is too drunk to remember the particulars of that conversation, as they'd been in a dream at the time and the forger's mental capacity is clearly a good bit lower than usual. But he supposes he can at least make the attempt... and try to ignore the pleasant warmth practically radiating from the larger man.

 

One in the morning? Eames is startled, not because it’s late, but because that’s rather early for him to be in this sort of situation. Usually it’s not until four or five that he ends up being dragged back by someone… although this is late for Arthur to show up… and actually, his showing up at all is a bit of a shock, but try as he might, Eames can’t carry that thought any further.

 

Eames spends a moment instead seriously considering falling asleep again where he is, held up by Arthur, but decides against it. “Not for certain,” he concludes after a moment. The only way to know would be to witness him sleeping. “You’re not sleeping now. Probably.” As far as he knows. Wait… no. He checked earlier… didn’t he? Why would he be lost in a dream?

 

Although, why Arthur should come help him find his hotel room and pretend to have been sleeping without a shirt and tie to prove a point is beyond—hold on. Hotel room. Right. “Arthur,” he says as they stand waiting for the elevator. Well, Arthur stands. Eames is somewhere between standing and leaning on Arthur. He eyes the number above the elevators, changing as they go up and down. Eames also doesn’t know what floor he’s on, so he has no idea if the elevators are nearing them. “I have no idea which room is mine.”

 

"Strangely enough," Arthur murmurs, pushing the forger against the wall of the elevator so he can prop it open and push the correct button; he hands the other man the key card he'd already lifted from his jacket pocket. "It's actually on your key." His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, but he hopes Eames doesn't notice, intoxicated as he currently is.

 

Eames takes the key card automatically, blinking down at it. Strange tones from Arthur do, in fact, go unnoticed; either the key has sidetracked him or he never noticed in the first place, much like Eames doesn't seem to notice or react to being pushed against things and left with the wall propping him up. He... hadn't even thought to look on his key. Or if he had, it had been quickly forgotten, or useless to him in one way or another. In fact, even staring at it now, no look of comprehension dawns on the forger's face. He just stares at it mostly blankly.

 

The numbers are there, though, he does see them, even though, in this state, that's about as far as his brain makes it, recognizing that numbers are on the card. And really, he thinks, it's only because Arthur had said that that was his room number that he'd realized that at all. Obviously Arthur saw them as well. It doesn't occur to Eames to wonder at Arthur having gotten the card from him without his noticing in the first place. After all, Arthur also appeared out of nowhere without his noticing. It's really not the most important or shocking detail of the last few minutes.

 

"So it is," he says after a moment, completely giving up on the numbers and choosing instead to blink up at Arthur. "Clever place to put it."

 

Amused, Arthur nods, hoisting most of the forger's weight onto his shoulder again and starting down the hallway when the doors open. "I agree."

 

They make it, slowly, down the hall to Eames' room (naturally as far away from the elevator as possible, just to make Arthur's life that much more difficult) and Arthur lets them in, taking the key card from Eames without a word and unlocking the door. He mostly carries the forger to the bed, laying him down onto it instead of just dropping him, and then disappearing into the bathroom.

 

When he returns, he's carrying a glass of water and two aspirin, which he lays on the nightstand, and he moves the wastebasket close to the bed, as well, before starting on Eames himself, yanking off the man's shoes and rolling him partially onto one side, then the other, to take off his jacket and unbutton his shirt a bit. His voice is brisk when he orders firmly, "Lay on your side or you'll choke on your own vomit when it starts," but his hands are surprisingly not rough on the other man, even annoyed as he'd been to have to get out of bed at one in the morning.

 

No point in asking why Eames had gotten so drunk so quickly, tonight. This is abnormally early for this stage of alcohol poisoning for most people. But if he did ask, he wouldn't get a straight answer out of the forger, drunk or sober. And so he doesn't bother, pulling the comforter up over the other man, who appears to be mostly unconscious again. "Goodnight, Eames."

 

At that, Eames manages to open his eyes just enough to peer up at Arthur, seeming rather surprised to find himself covered and in bed and just taken care of in general. That's not normal, at least not for nights like this, which are also not particularly normal, but either way typically end with him on the floor somewhere. Not necessarily his own floor, either. But for some reason, which god knows Eames can't make out, Arthur not only came to find him, he dragged him back to the room Eames couldn't find himself, and is apparently worried about the possibility of his choking.

 

This all takes an abnormally long time to register in Eames' brain, but it does eventually. But even then, words are slow in coming to the forger's brain, and even slower in making them out of his mouth; he wants to say thank you, even to ask why he'd bothered, maybe make some sort of comment about the lack of shirt and tie, but he doesn't manage. All Eames finally does manage is, "Y're secretly very nice to me. S'baffling." Unconsciousness is threatening very loudly, and Eames gives up fighting it about then, but not before he manages to mumble, "'Night, Arthur," sans one single pet name. Maybe he doesn't need one, that time, because the way he says Arthur's name contains enough fondness to get the point across quite nicely.

 

"It's all right," Arthur says quietly, the amusement still audible in his voice. "You won't remember in the morning, anyway. My reputation is safe." It's an overly sentimental gesture, but in the light of Eames most likely not recalling any of it at all, he reaches down, brushing the hair from the forger's forehead... and then backing away from the bed, turning and letting himself out of the room without another word, clicking off the lights as he goes. He's fairly certain Eames is unconscious before the door closes.

 

On the way back to his room, he berates himself. Is it suddenly just... _okay_ to act that way around Eames? _Really, what the hell, Arthur? What's wrong with you? You say things and decide not to do things, and then you turn right around and do them anyway._ Where has all his goddamn willpower gone? It's not right to act that way only because the forger won't remember in the morning. Not that he has the balls to actually say anything to Eames. At all. Well, about what's driving him nuts, that is. Regular, everyday annoyances, sure. But about the fact that Arthur is having a problem keeping himself from jumping the other man again... not so much.

 

The next day, not surprisingly, Eames does not show up at any time during the morning. In fact, he is missing straight past afternoon right on into the evening. He spends most of the morning in bed, completely unconscious. When he finally wakes up, there happens a very shameless crawl to the bathroom, where he spends most of the afternoon losing the contents of his stomach, which hadn’t been much of anything besides liquor anyway.

 

It isn’t until somewhere around dinnertime that Eames drags himself the three feet from the toilet to the shower, where he sits, fully clothed (except for his shoes and jacket, conspicuously absent), and simply lets the water pelt him until he works up the energy to turn it off. Then comes drinking a very small bit of water, more aspirin, and a nap sans soaking clothing.

 

It’s dark outside his window when Eames finally forces himself to take an actual shower and attempt to eat, even slightly. He knows that he probably should have gone to the office building for at least a few minutes, or even called someone, but on the other hand, it would have been much more difficult to keep track of his brains if they’d leaked all over the floor there instead of here, in his hotel room. Also, until the shower, he’d smelled like whisky, sweat, and vomit, and would that really have been fair to visit upon his poor colleagues?

 

Then again, as Eames struggles to recall, he may have visited a bit of that upon Arthur the night before. If he forces an already-headache-wracked brain to concentrate… yes, he can recall Arthur having been there at some point. And there are hints of the point man’s presence, as well, in the fact that his coat and shoes were off, that the light was turned off… that he’d ended up in his bed at all. A bit worried at his inability to recall what had happened, Eames finally picks up his phone… and spots two several-minute-long phonecalls to Arthur. “Bollocks.”

 

Purely coincidentally, barely a moment later there's a knock on his door. When he opens it, he finds the point man standing on the other side, brows raised as he eyes the forger's rather haggard appearance. "Have you gotten to the hungry stage yet?" he asks, holding up a white paper bag. Sandwiches, of course. None of this fast food junk for Arthur, but he'd ordered the plainest sandwich he could find for Eames.

 

After a moment of enduring the nonplussed staring, he rolls his eyes. "The job is tomorrow night. Young told me to see if you're still alive." And maybe he'd wanted to check, a little, himself. Not a crime.

 

“Only just,” Eames admits, voice rough (his throat is hurting now in addition to his poor head), but steps back out of the way to allow Arthur entrance. The room itself isn’t so bad off. The smell of earlier vomiting had been enough to set him off again, so eventually Eames had done what he could to clean the damn place. Also he’d shut the door to the bathroom. And left yesterday’s soaking clothing in there, along with the waste basket that had been so conveniently located next to his bed.

 

Either Arthur has his brain bugged, he’s dreaming this, or the man’s timing is frightening. Any way it is, his presence and lack of an immediate glower at least indicates that Eames hadn’t said or done anything _too_ horrible the night before. He hopes. Right? He doesn’t usually say mean things, actually he’s a very pleasant drunk normally, but who knows? Maybe he’d been _too_ pleasant? He does get like that, as well…

 

Not sure if he’s reached the hungry stage or not, Eames nevertheless appreciates the gesture. “I’ve had water. And half a cracker. I was letting that sit before testing my luck, except I’m not sure how long ago that was.” As this day feels as though it’s been endless.

 

"It's already after seven," Arthur points out, noting the relative cleanliness of the room but not commenting. He sets the food bag down on the desk, putting his hands in his pockets and trying to ignore the turned-down bed. Well, not turned down, but rather slept in. Very, very slept in.

 

And, not shockingly, awkwardness ensues, at least for Arthur. "You're a pretty pleasant drunk," he observes after a moment, trying not to let the amusement show in his voice. He's not sure what else to say, frankly.

 

“Christ,” Eames manages, rubbing at his eyes. Pretty pleasant drunk is better than obnoxious and annoying as shit drunk. On the other hand, what in the world possessed him to be _any kind of drunk at all near Arthur?!_ If Eames’ brain was in better condition, maybe he’d wonder why it matters that he was drunk in front of Arthur in particular… but right now, he doesn’t. “I apologize, blanket apology for anything I said or did that was…” He pauses, anticipates the retort, and rewords. “…more obnoxious than usual.”

 

There, that should be satisfactory. Not that it won’t invite a retort anyway, but you know, at least it was sincere enough. He tried. Also, apparently, so did Arthur, who brought him food. Which strikes Eames as rather nice of him, which has the strange added effect of his feeling like he’s forgotten something that has to do with that, but he can’t remember what, for the life of him. Something to do with sandwiches? Or Arthur?

 

“Thanks,” he says finally, meaning for the sandwiches, and putting up with him, and then adds, “I suppose there are worse sorts of drunk to be.”

 

"Better than melancholy or pissy," Arthur agrees, stripping off his jacket and pulling one of the sandwiches out of the paper bag. He examines it, and then tosses it to Eames, keeping the second for himself. The desk chair is then claimed, and he slides down into it, stretching out long legs.

 

He doesn't ask if he can stay, but decides that he's inviting himself, which seems to be becoming a habit around the forger. That's probably a bad thing, but right now he really doesn't care. "You weren't obnoxious." He's busy unwrapping his sandwich as he says this, entirely casual about it all. "Much less annoying than usual, actually. You weren't really trying your hardest."

 

That gets a bit of a smile out of Eames, the first one of the day that isn’t more of a grimace. Of course, he’d been expecting some sort of response of that nature, and isn’t particularly surprised. He is a bit surprised that the point man has sat down, as though they haven’t been strictly _avoiding_ one another, it’s seemed that way on and off. Still, he says nothing about it, barely catching the sandwich thrown at him with a quiet thanks, and sits down on the end of the bed.

 

He spends a moment unwrapping the sandwich and eyeing it thoughtfully as though having an in-depth inner discussion with his stomach about whether or not this is doable; before he decides to give it a go, though, Eames has to reply. “Well, it impairs one’s thought processes, doesn’t it? I always seem to forget that I’m supposed to be annoying while drinking. It is one downside I’ve learned to live with.”

 

He eyes the sandwich again. He _is_ hungry. The problem isn’t that. It’s the fear that he will immediately regurgitate the whole thing. Which explains the wary look in his eyes as he takes a small bite.

 

Arthur bites back a smile, quite literally in this case, taking a large bite out of his own sandwich and watching, still amused, as Eames appears to win the contest of wills between his brain and his stomach. He doesn't add anything, though, or comment on the other man's drinking habits, deciding that he probably shouldn't distract him if he's in immediate danger of his stomach emptying again.

 

Once things appear to go well, though, the rest of both sandwiches disappear in short order, and Arthur closes his eyes halfway, feeling pleasantly full, and oddly warm, even in the overactive air conditioning of the hotel. He could easily doze off here. Or, even more easily, by crawling into the bed, there. There's work to be done, but for once that doesn't rouse him; he hasn't slept well, truly, in months, and he's never slept in a bed with Eames, his mind reminds him.

 

"Ready for tomorrow?" he asks sleepily, not quite dozing off yet, but definitely without the energy to move.

 

“Thoroughly,” Eames says. He’ll be ready. He would probably not be ready right now, but he’s certainly spent enough time around Jonas, and as Jonas, to be prepared. It’s just a matter now of not being hungover for the job. But since right now Eames feels like he may never want to see another bottle of any type of alcohol for the rest of his life- a feeling that will last at least two days- Eames doesn’t think that will be a problem.

 

Arthur looks like he’s halfway to sleep already. Eames wonders what he would do if Arthur just fell asleep in his room. He has no idea. Probably stare at him and wish all sorts of things he has no business wishing. “I’ll be glad to do it if only to be certain never to have to follow that man about again,” he admits. “What about you?” He knows the answer, of course, before he asks, but Eames asks anyway.

 

"I don't agree with all of Young's ideas," Arthur muses, shrugging slightly. His half-closed eyes are watching Eames, but the forger's habit of not looking people in the eye when he talks to them is making eye contact difficult. Arthur tries to convince himself that this is better, anyway, but he's failing. "But the plan will work." He's been finished the research part of his job for a day and a half, now.

 

The warm feeling washes through him again, and he drums his fingertips against the arm of the desk chair, making sure his breathing stays even. This was a bad idea. He should really go. He really... really should. But his body isn't responding to that decision, and he finds that he doesn't mind. "I've gone over the entire thing more times than it already required." In short, he has nothing to do. Which is undoubtedly how he'd ended up here; he has no distractions that he absolutely has to get done right this minute, keeping him from his thoughts. Amongst other things.

 

The idea that Arthur disagrees with some of Young’s ideas is a bit disturbing to Eames, who, although Arthur often disagrees with _his_ ideas, certainly values the man’s opinion when it comes to his job. There is a difference between disagreeing with someone and not believing it will work, however, so it’s not bothersome enough that Eames begins to worry if he should demand more thought be put into the plan at this juncture.

 

Considering the way his day has been going, it’s not shocking that once Eames notices a sleepy-looking Arthur, he begins to recall the _last_ time he saw Arthur looking that particular way, and his mind starts carrying that on _far_ beyond where it can safely go with the man in the room. It’s no wonder, for once, that Eames isn’t looking at him straight on, because Eames is fairly certain, splitting headache or not, he would want to do things that he really isn’t certain should be attempted.

 

“If you think it’ll work, what is there to disagree with?” he asks, curious rather than baiting, watching Arthur’s fingers drumming on the chair with probably a little too much interest.

 

"I'd prefer to try to make her think that the first level isn't actually a dream, if she does figure us out in the second, rather than a maze to slow down the projections," Arthur admits. "He thinks the deception will be enough. Not that I don't trust you to do it right," he adds immediately, and honestly. "But you know me. I prefer having a plan B. And C. D through M, maybe. As many as necessary."

 

It might just be that he'd rather not be tortured by her projections until the timer runs out, should things go to shit. Getting shot in the knee once this year was more than enough. He shrugs. "I'd rather be careful. He doesn't think it's necessary."

 

Reaching up, he touches the corner of his mouth. "You've got mustard."

 

Not shocked to hear that Arthur would prefer backup plans, Eames nevertheless really has none for him. Backup plans are for when you are in a situation you didn’t know would occur. They’ve prepared for as many eventualities as possible. There is only so much you can prepare for, though. It’s really as simple as that. If something goes wrong… they’ll have to figure out what to do.

 

Eames is thrown out of musings about backup plans upon Arthur’s pointing out that he has mustard on his mouth, which really only goes to show how out of sorts he is. Still, Eames believes him, and rather than go to all the trouble of looking for a napkin or, worse, getting up and going the entire five yards to the bathroom, Eames takes care of it with his tongue, taking as long about it as possible. This is absolutely on purpose, because he’s been horrifically well-behaved today, and apparently pleasant as all hell last night. Eames believes that is enough of that.

 

“Did I get it?” he asks after a moment. After all, it’s Arthur or the mirror and the mirror is just as far away as the sink.

 

Arthur's fingers have stopped tapping on the chair arm by this point. Now both his hands are lying flat on either arm, outwardly at rest but in reality pressing down against the wood, because Arthur will not give Eames the satisfaction of seeing the point man gripping something after that display.

 

He has the sudden urge to punch the other man, if only for being an irrepressible flirt and utterly impossible to figure out. He has spent the past years of their acquaintance flirting with Arthur blatantly, making use of every possible form of sexual harassment, but now... hell, Arthur has no idea if it's real, again, or just Eames going back to familiar behavior.

 

And to respond will let Eames know he's won. He'd won days ago, to be honest, but then they'd slipped into this weird cycle of avoidance, and Arthur would really like to know what the hell is going on between them, now. But his pride isn't going to let him ask. He's half-tempted to just stand up and stalk out, but he's getting tired of always being the one to run away in a snit, and really... he's just... tired. And aching, in more ways than one... but still unable to be the one to overcome that invisible barrier that always seems to surround him, making him avoid touching people like the damned plague.

 

Finally, he decides to go for the unexpected answer. Eames is undoubtedly assuming he'll snap back an insult, or mutter, or stalk out, dander up. So instead, he raises he brows and shakes his head slowly. "Nope. Still there."

 

Eames’ eyebrow goes up at this response, which was… not what he’d been expecting. After all, it’s a rare, _severely_ rare thing, that he wrings any sort of actual _response_ from Arthur, aside from threats of violence and expert glares. Were he anyone else, Eames would take that lack of retort as an invitation and promptly do his best to ravage him senseless; the problem is that Arthur _isn’t_ anyone else. Eames is not used to finding himself in such an uncertain state as he is with Arthur, and although at first he had been sure this was all so confused because they’re colleagues, even Eames can’t really fool himself with that one anymore.

 

He doesn’t know why it is that it matters so much that he not fuck everything up with Arthur. For years, he was completely certain the man hated him, after all. He still isn’t entirely convinced otherwise. And, too, it is a rare thing for someone to be so capable of getting under _Eames’_ skin when he least expects it.

 

But he can’t let that stop him, because although that may not have been the sort of invitation Eames would want it to be—shouldn’t want it to be, though, for so, so many reasons—it _was_ a challenge. Backing off now would be next to impossible. So, thus goaded on, Eames’ reaction is really the only natural response- to repeat the action, this time taking particular time and care licking his lips a great deal more completely, making eye contact for the first noticeable time that evening. “How about now?”

 

Arthur is still leaning back in his chair, but his eyes are no longer partially closed; they're wide open, now, and staring at the forger. Or rather, at his mouth for a long minute. When they tick upwards again to meet Eames', they're even darker than usual, enough that it's impossible to tell iris from pupil.

 

"You're good," he manages, voice an octave or so lower than he'd intended it to be.

 

Slowly, he sits up, no longer looking relaxed, but instead like he wants to tackle Eames. But he has to make sure of one thing before he does. Right now, it seems actually possible. He has no idea how long the feeling will last. "Look, on the Fischer job..." He trails off, having no idea how to put what he's feeling into words. "I don't know how to do this, all right?" There. Eames wins. He got him to admit it. There he goes. "If I'm drunk enough or it's been too long, I can manage. I'm not good... with people." And he sounds defensive as hell, but there's nothing he can do about it.

 

And fuck, Eames is staring at him, now. Not the way he'd been staring a moment before, but this time like he looks... surprised. Like maybe he really had just gone back to harassing Arthur for kicks, and now Arthur just told him something he's never admitted to anyone... fuck.

 

Fuck.

 

He's up from the chair and out the door before Eames, with his headache, can so much as get up off the bed. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. That's it. I'm done. Screw this. No one needs it._ I _don't need it. Fuck it all._

 

By the time Eames can lever himself off of the bed and pull the door open, checking the hallway in both directions, Arthur is long gone. Long, long gone, so far gone that Eames doesn’t even have the faintest idea which _direction_ he might have gone in. Swearing, Eames hits the doorframe with the palm of his hand, substituting it in his mind for perhaps himself, or maybe Arthur. If it’d been _any other day_ , Eames would have at least had a _chance_ of catching him (or at least of seeing where he’d gone). But of course it’s today, when he’s only just now able to _stand_ without vomiting.

 

Swearing, Eames pulls his door shut, stalking over to his suitcase- he rarely unpacks completely- and yanking clean clothing out. He’s going to need to be dressed for this, if he’s going to have to go after the bastard. Of _course_ Arthur would scamper off like that when Eames is only just able to _think_. Of course he would.

 

Notably, it doesn’t even occur to Eames not to follow after Arthur, not after… that. Yes, they have been in a weird sort of in-between state. Yes, he’s worried as all hell that he’s going to fuck something up. But when it comes down to it, Eames sees no choice. He’s going to find Arthur, and he is going to shake him and demand to know why the man hadn’t said that years ago. This was the first time either of them had ever mentioned what had happened on the Fischer job, and Eames feels a bit like he was just punched in the face from the shock of what had just happened. But hell if he’s going to let this slide with no reaction.

 

Oh, no. For one thing, he just can’t allow Arthur to have the last word like that. So, fully clothed and just as determined, Eames leaves his room, the door swinging shut and locking behind him. He might have no idea what room Arthur is checked into, but hell if he won’t be able to find out if he puts his mind to it.

 

By the time Arthur hears the knock on his door he'd assumed would be coming, he's already downed two of the handy, small bottles of liquor in his mini-bar and is hard at work on a third, not even caring what he's knocking back. He's nowhere near intoxicated, but he damned well plans to be, and very soon. He'll take a damned page out of Eames' book. Maybe it'll actually help. He doubts it, but you never know.

 

He has all the lights off except the one in the bathroom, and is currently lying in the semi-darkness with a small bottle of alcohol in hand, staring up at the ceiling, when there's a very loud knock, closer to a bang, on his door. Nope. Not here. Went out. Definitely not here. He doesn't make a sound, except to take another drink.

 

This whole... getting sloshed and ignoring your problems thing is actually sort of liberating. He should've tried it years ago.

 

After three absolute lack of responses, despite the fact that he is more pounding than knocking on the door, Eames takes a step back, glowering at the thing with an animosity he typically reserves for people who kick puppies and talk too loudly in movie theatres. The door is not phased, despite how withering his glare might appear. Eames briefly considers kicking it down, followed by a brief daydream involving a battering ram, ending with the conclusion that he would be kicked out of the hotel for that, which would not be in his best interest.

 

So, instead, he resorts to the time-honoured tradition of shouting through the doorway for everyone who might happen to be standing near their nearby doors to hear. He has no shame. It’s not his fault if Arthur has some.

 

“I know you’re in there, Arthur!” he calls. “You can run, and yes I suppose you can also hide, which… you’ve done, so… bully for you. However, I am confident in my ability to keep at this out here until you either come out and knock me senseless or they cart me off for disturbing the peace.” He pauses. No answer. That makes this a challenge. “All right, whichever you prefer, I’m sure I’ll be out on bail in time for work tomorrow. I’ll just bring it up then.” Nothing, nothing? This is rough. Rough crowd. “Don’t make me sing, love, I can be at it for hours.”

 

One of the nearby doors opens at this point, to reveal about one eye of a middle-aged woman, glaring at him. “Terribly sorry, madam, but as I’m sure you heard, you too are stuck listening to me go on until he decides to open the door or they cart me off. I won’t go without a fight, though, you can be certain of that.” The eye narrows and the door shuts. “Night, then!” Eames calls cheerfully.

 

The words have only just left his mouth when behind him, the door jerks open, and the point man grabs his arm hard enough to bruise, jerking him inside and slamming the door shut again. The light from the bathroom provides more than enough illumination to see the anger in Arthur's face, but not, for once, at Eames, despite the man's astounding skill at pushing his buttons.

 

No, this anger is at himself. "All right, I let you in, what do you want," he grates, the words more statement than question. He'd've preferred to hide in here for the rest of the night, but here he is, facing what's going to be a very unpleasant discussion like a man. Yay for him. He lets go of Eames' arm, stalking away and grabbing for the half-finished drink he'd shoved onto the nightstand when he'd finally had enough and lunged to open the door.

 

If it weren’t for the fact that Arthur looks ready to hit someone and he is the only natural target, Eames would be more than mildly disappointed that he hadn’t gotten to the part where he began to sing. It’s probably just as well, he decides, since he has never seen Arthur go at a drink like that before, and who knows if _he’s_ a pleasant drunk?

 

And despite the fact that that was only slightly a question, Eames still stares at Arthur in the relative darkness for a moment, somewhere between looking for a way to answer and shocked that he even has to ask, considering the fact that Eames just followed him back to his room.

 

“All right, well, that’s simple enough, I want to shag you senseless,” Eames finally says, about as blunt as humanly possible. Then he pauses, and adds, “Or vice versa, it doesn’t really matter so long as one or more people involved end up senseless.”

 

Eames half-heartedly throws up his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say or do, Arthur, you don’t have to be good with people, only with me. And you are, you have been, aside from hiding just now. Also I think you’ve sprained my wrist slightly, which is a bit antagonistic, but I’ll admit I likely deserved it.”

 

Flinching slightly, Arthur shakes his head. "Sorry." The word is quiet, but an honest apology. He hadn't meant to do that, he'd just wanted... to get him to _shut up_... although right now, he can keep talking, Arthur's pretty sure he wouldn't mind. Not considering what he's saying.

 

"I don't... I can't... start things," he says haltingly. "Touch people. I can't do it. In a dream, that's different, I guess, and fuck knows I _want_ to, but... I can't." Except when he's fighting someone. Then he can touch them. His mouth twists, but he's not facing Eames right now anyway, so the other man doesn't see the grimace. "I try, but it's like there's... a wall, or something. I'm fine once I start, but starting's the part I can't do... and I sound like a whiny little girl. Christ." He drags a hand over the back of his neck.

 

Eames isn’t certain how many whiny little girls Arthur has met in his lifetime, but he has met a few, and Arthur resembles none of them. Which Eames, personally, is thankful for. That would make this conversation all kinds of inappropriate… the sort of inappropriate Eames does not enjoy. So no, he doesn’t know why this equates to whiny little girl, but he doesn’t make a quip, just this once. Rather, he considers this knowledge and then carries on to what he thinks is the next logical step.

 

“All right, so…” Eames begins slowly, “…supposing you don’t start anything at all. Supposing I do instead.”

 

Arthur considers this, but not for long. That... is pretty much what he was really hoping to hear. Yeah, he needs to work on this... mental block he has. Fear. He can admit it. But not right now, no. This is not the time for that sort of psychological step forward. If Eames... starts things... God, that would be enough for tonight.

 

"That would work," he says quietly, turning to face the other man and meeting his eyes, not having realized that Eames had moved closer.

 

“Good,” Eames says quietly. He doesn’t add that it’s good both because, well, you know, it really is, and also because his backup plan was to shake Arthur and demand to know what the hell is going on. Eames is quite certain he has never met someone so maddening, which is absurd because Arthur seems so very straightforward, on the outside.

 

He doesn’t waste any time with that, or wondering what in the world Arthur means by all of this, or why this is a problem for Arthur. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t want to pry right now, and if he waits _any longer_ he is going to scream. Patience has never been his strong suit, and besides, he doesn’t want to give the other man time to change his mind. Or to scamper again. Good Christ.

 

So, that settled, Eames does exactly as he’d suggested, and in a burst of movement that brings on a strong sense of deja-vu, closes the now small distance between them and crushes his mouth to Arthur’s.

 

Without actually intending to, Arthur moans almost embarrassingly loudly at that, returning the gesture after a brief second or two of startlement. He had expected kissing Eames to be less familiar than it feels, but he supposes even though prior to this, what they'd done had been in a dream, his body still remembers it.

 

And as always happens, the discomfort he'd felt so strongly at the idea of actually coming into physical contact with someone, that horrible tension dissipates almost immediately, and he's left feeling like an idiot and as though he's entirely out of control of his own actions. But thinking is becoming a problem, and he's very close to just giving up on it entirely. His brain doesn't seem to be working very well at the moment, anyway...

 

Eames’ brain, too, is only running at half speed, but apparently the part of it that is working is just the half he needs, because once they seem to have gotten past this hurdle- several hurdles, actually, which all suddenly seem very silly to Eames- he very quickly has one hand clamped on the point man’s arm. It starts out as almost an assurance, keeping Arthur from pulling away, but when he returns the kiss, it turns into holding on just for the sake of holding on to Arthur.

 

Of course, this quickly turns into attempting to push Arthur backwards, because somewhere in the back of Eames’ mind, he recalls that there is a bed somewhere in the general direction he is trying to move them. And frankly, if Arthur makes a noise like that again- for real, in reality, not a dream, which Eames is having trouble believing, frankly - his knees are likely to give out like a little teenage girl’s, and they can’t have that.

 

It's not surprising to Arthur, after they've collapsed on what had been a precisely neatly-made bed, that that hadn't taken very long. The actual sex, he means of course, not... the part where it took them a long time to get there. And it's definitely deja vu to lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling, flopped next to Eames and still panting.

 

He wants to smile. To grin, really. Maybe laugh, loudly and ridiculously. It's a toss-up, even though he's fairly sure he won't be doing any of them. But his shoulder is still pressed against Eames', and he shifts one boneless leg over to flop partially over the forger's, still amazed at how nice just that feels. He has no idea what to say, now, doesn't even know if he could manage speech even if he wanted to.

 

"Shit," is all that comes out, again. It has the ring of tradition, and as before, Arthur thinks it fits nicely.

 

Amused, Eames doesn’t bother fighting _his_ grin at that. As per last time, he can’t think of a single thing better to say. That seems to fit perfectly. He agrees wholeheartedly. “Agreed,” Eames manages, though he’s still breathing hard. He doesn’t want to be the one to break tradition, after all.

 

And, too, this all has the added bonus of his headache having temporarily been less violently threatening to destroy his brain. It’s still there, of course, but Eames has been expertly ignoring it, because suddenly it had not seemed so very important. In fact, very little had seemed important for a while there, aside from Arthur and what they were doing. The feeling remains even now, and Eames finds himself thoroughly enjoying lying here- in a bed, no less!- next to Arthur, not awkward, just lying there, casually touching. It’s oddly nice.

 

Arthur lays there quietly for a few minutes, lost in thought and considering falling asleep, despite the fact that it's only mid-evening. After a bit, though, he thinks of something that he should definitely say to Eames. Well, more than shit, appropriate as that had been. And it really, really was. He'd been worried... that it might have been different, not as good, somehow, as it had been on the Fischer job. But his worries had most definitely been unfounded, and that is entirely a relief.

 

"Thank you," he says, out of nowhere. The forger makes a questioning noise, and Arthur can hear his head shift on the pillow, feel the other man's eyes on him. Not an unpleasant situation, but he doesn't look away from the ceiling. "For coming after me. No one's ever done that before." When he'd pulled away from people in the past, not drunk or desperate enough to move past his discomfort, none of them had ever chased after him. It feels... nice. More than nice, but he doesn't know the correct word for how it feels, really.

 

For a moment, Eames is silent, not quite sure what to say to that. First of all, he determines that people who had not followed after Arthur obviously had not been staring at his arse in those damn fitted trousers for years, or were idiots, or both. Then he begins to wonder how often this sort of thing has happened. Then he decides he doesn’t care, as he did come after Arthur, and it… appears to have worked out.

 

“Well, I obviously couldn’t let you run off with the last word, could I?” Eames asks, quite reasonably he thinks, but even hidden, the grin is audible in his voice. Of course he’d come after the man. He’s spent years fighting off vague hopes that this might be possible. “Anyway, I hope you haven’t had enough of me just yet, as I have the nagging feeling that I left my key in my room.”

 

Chuckling at that, Arthur shakes his head, somehow managing to relax even further at the act of laughing, although he hadn't thought further relaxation could be possible. "Excuses," he says calmly.

 

But really. "Had enough of you?" The point man's voice turns thoughtful. "What if I have?" He's teasing, and he's certain Eames must know it, but that doesn't mean he's not trying to get a rise out of the other man. And of course he'd left his key in his room. It's not shocking... but is, he admits, rather flattering, since Eames had been in such a hurry to get to Arthur's room that he'd forgotten it.

 

“Well, firstly, I honestly don’t believe it’s possible to have had enough of me,” Eames says, quite seriously. Well, mostly seriously. He is managing to keep from smirking, so that’s something. His ego isn’t really as big as all that, much as it might seem so at times. And besides, Arthur’s response was just begging for something of that nature. Well, that or proving himself and Eames needs a little time to breathe, first. He is, after all, not in top condition at the moment.

 

In fact, he is giving serious thought to taking a nap. Or, rather, his body seems to want one, while his mind is wide awake. This will have to be remedied one way or the other.

 

“And secondly… that’s too bad,” he adds shortly. He really can’t think of much more to say to that. “You can kick me out, naturally, but I don’t think that woman down the hall will appreciate the scene I’d make.”

 

"She'd appreciate it more if I didn't kick your clothes out with you," Arthur quips right back, stifling a grin. That gets the forger, that backhanded compliment, of the sort that Arthur doesn't often make. Turning his head, now, he eyes the other man's muscular build, impressive even now at rest, and the tattoos nearly covering his torso.

 

Arthur himself has no tattoos- he'd never quite been able to work himself up to it, and he personally doesn't think he'd be able to wear them as well as Eames does. Or look quite as badass, he admits to himself. Not that he would ever say that to Eames. But... it's true, he supposes. Yawning a little himself, he shifts over so he's flopped on his side instead of his back, facing the other man.

 

Despite the fact that that was both a compliment and a retort, Eames can’t help but grin a bit. After all, he has made his feelings on Arthur, with or without clothing, rather obvious over the years. Whether or not he’d been purely harassing or not is inconsequential- the man is lean muscle and brings taking care of that to a whole new level. Arthur, on the other hand, has never quite said something of that nature to Eames, who has heard that sort of thing before of course, but… it’s somehow more meaningful to hear it from Arthur.

 

Eames watches as Arthur rolls over, raising an eyebrow. “Perhaps,” he admits, very humbly. “But I doubt very much the hotel manager would care for it.” And he doesn’t _actually_ want to be picked up by the police.

 

"Probably not," Arthur agrees, amused. His rolling over had moved him just far enough away that they're not touching anymore, and he suddenly wants to remedy that. Even now, he can feel himself hesitate... and then he forces himself to remember what all they'd just done, and he smiles slightly, shifting closer. He's up against Eames' side, then, feeling the other man radiating warmth, and he's very abruptly... fine. Perfectly fine, actually.

 

"You goddamn radiate heat, you know that?" he mumbles, face half in the pillow and half in Eames' shoulder.

 

Eames closes his eyes, at that, just lying there for a moment and feeling Arthur pressed up against his side. He’s never been one to baulk at closeness, physically. He might have a long-running history of one-night stands followed closely by his sneaking out before the morning comes (or the night, depending on whether or not this is a literal one-night stand), but Eames has never been averse to this sort of thing, after. Or even just casually, near people he knows or even just met, Eames touches people. It’s simple and comes easily to him, and he has never minded.

 

But this is different, because he knows Arthur is not that way. This is very strange, for the point man, who didn’t really need to tell him he wasn’t good with touching people, because Eames has been watching him over the years, and he knows. And so the forger doesn’t really know what it means that they’re lying like this, but he can tell that it’s not just pleasant post-coital feelings, which is both heartening and borderline frightening. Eames focuses on heartening. It’s nice, to lie here and know that it’s _real_ , and not for the first time, Eames has to stop himself from moving to reach down for his totem… just to be sure. It’s real. It has to be.

 

As for his radiating heat, Eames is well aware of the fact. He does well in cold climates for it. Arthur’s not cold, though, himself; Eames can feel him as well, and the point man is a perfectly normal temperature. “It’s purposeful. To keep you naked as long as possible.”

 

"Ah." Arthur lifts a still-boneless arm, flopping it across the forger's chest. Eames' shoulder receives a bite, although his teeth close on Eames' skin much more gently than they had earlier. But the gesture is more affection than anything else, because Arthur is pretty sure he's just going to drift off soon. It's not surprising, really- he hasn't slept through a full night, or even for more than five or six hours at a time, for... well, it's been a while, anyway.

 

He yawns. "'S a good plan." And for the first time in years, Arthur promptly passes out without checking his gun, his phone, without doing his nighttime exercises, or any of the other habits that have become his pre-bed rituals. He's drifted off before he even manages to finish what he'd been about to say, as well as before he can tell Eames that he's about to fall asleep.

 

“Of course it is,” Eames agrees in a mumble, fighting back a small shiver from the bite to his shoulder. Obviously this is a good plan, as it is his plan, but he supposes that’s high praise coming from the man with the plans. He’s about to say something else- Eames doesn’t really know what- but when he opens one eye to glance at Arthur, he finds him… completely asleep, face buried half in the pillow and half in Eames’ shoulder, arm across his chest.

 

Smiling a bit to himself, Eames sighs and decides to follow his example, pretending that it’s accidental when his head moves to lean on Arthur’s. And pretending, too, that he doesn’t realize that this is the point where he’s supposed to sneak out of here without making a big fuss over it.

 

For the first time in months at the very least, Arthur sleeps through the night, waking early the next morning and then wanting to burrow back down beneath the blankets when he sees the sun coming in through cracks in the drapes. The bathroom light is still on, and it casts the room into an eerie, artificial sort of light, but he's not complaining when he tries to roll onto his back... and finds something in the way. Or rather, someone. A large someone.

 

Eames is sprawled next to him, still, somehow managing to take up most of the bed, even though it's at least queen-sized. Even Arthur, lying on his stomach as he usually does, is using a considerably smaller portion of the mattress, and Eames is half on top of him, too. He cracks a smile, still half-asleep, and can't help but notice how much younger the other man looks, with his hair a mess and half-covering his face.

 

He's warm and comfortable, and he has no desire to get up; normally he would anyway, pulling on boxers and starting his pushups and situps, but this morning... he figures it can wait a little longer. He slides back beneath the covers the rest of the way, and feels the arm around his middle tighten, pulling him back against the other man again. Yawning, he closes his eyes, very happy to doze for a while.

 

Eames takes considerably longer to wake even slightly, and appears, when not attached to a PASIV, to sleep rather soundly. He does wake fairly quickly when necessary- years in his field do lead to learning that skill quickly- but isn’t necessarily happy about it. In fact, the first hint of wakefulness Eames has, he promptly squashes, burying his face further into the pillow and... yes, that would be Arthur’s neck.

 

 _That_ gets Eames to open one eye a crack, presumably to check the validity of his sleepy determination that he is sleeping half-around Arthur. His subconscious didn’t make it up, though, unless he’s dreaming, but no- he can’t be. Probably. Right? He recalls falling asleep here, after…

 

Hmmm. This is a much better way to wake up than yesterday. Definitely a step in the right direction, Eames thinks sleepily. He also considers going right back to sleep, because it’s also a better way to sleep than yesterday. _Much_ better. But he has no idea what time it is, and… the job is today. Right? He can tell that the sun is up, from the window… sleepy and slightly disoriented, Eames tries halfheartedly to spot a clock, fails, and then tries to see if Arthur is awake and also fails. He moves on to more drastic measures. “Arthur darling,” he tries through a yawn, voice hoarse with sleep. “Are you awake? If you’re not I’m going to wake you now. Fair warning. Hope you don’t wake up swinging.”

 

"It's still early," comes Arthur's equally-sleepy voice, muffled by his own pillow. But his hand comes up to grab Eames' forearm, gripping it tightly for a minute and holding it in place before he lets go. He sighs after a minute, though, more of a huff than anything else, because now he's completely awake.

 

He feels Eames' breath on the back of his neck, and a shiver runs down his spine; grumbling, he rolls forward onto his stomach, pulling the pillow over his head. They could just stay here. Young and Walsh know where his room is, but they could barricade the door... they don't have to be at the office until ten, anyway, they've got two hours...

 

Grinning to himself, Eames does not argue with this assessment. If it’s “still early”… Eames lifts his head to peer over Arthur at the clock, now easier to spot with him on his stomach instead of his side. Two hours. That is _plenty_ of time. It _is_ early. And there are only two things Eames will voluntarily get up early for: work, and what he is hoping to do this morning.

 

“It is,” he agrees, leaning over to bite at Arthur’s shoulder, the closest spot he can reach, now that the man’s head is buried under the pillow. “You didn’t ask why I waking you, love.”

 

That earns him another shudder, but Arthur's head doesn't reappear. His hands do fist in the sheets a bit, but he stays where he is, not about to give Eames the satisfaction of capitulating. "True," he admits, voice muffled.

 

His smile is audible in his voice when he adds, "Why were you waking me, Mr. Eames?"

 

Eames very nearly laughs at that; he holds it in, but it’s a near thing. And he can’t fight off the smile, but then, he’d already been smiling a bit, and he is still tired. Fighting it seems unnecessary, since Arthur can’t see him anyway. So he takes his time to answer, lips moving from the other man’s shoulder to the spot where his neck meets his back, as far up as he can go with the pillow in his way, and there Arthur receives another bite.

 

“Because, Arthur,” he begins, quite properly, “I had not finished with you last night.”

 

"Hadn't you?" The pillow moves after a minute, revealing Arthur's head, turned sideways so he can try to look over his shoulder and see what Eames is doing. All that's in his line of sight, though, is one tattooed shoulder, and he closes his eyes, not arguing with this plan.

 

When Eames' hands start roaming, though, sliding down his back and further, to other places, he makes a strangled sound, shoving himself up and turning over, pushing the other man down onto his back. "What if I wasn't done with you?" he asks hoarsely, lowering down so their mouths are inches apart.

 

Finding himself quite suddenly on his back with Arthur on top of him, Eames blinks, and then grins. As he’d said the night before: it doesn’t matter who is shagged senseless as long as it’s one of them. No matter how this goes, it will be a good way to start the day. He can work with just about anything Arthur wants.

 

“Also a valid reason for you to be woken,” Eames says, voice lower than it had been only a moment ago. He finds himself staring at Arthur’s lips, just far enough away that they’re not touching, and licks his own almost unconsciously. “I wouldn’t want you to be… unsatisfied.” Have to be on the ball today, after all, no pun intended, or if it was, only a little.

 

"I don't think that's going to be a problem," is Arthur's response. Of course, this is said deliberately slowly, no matter how much he'd like to hurry through the retort. And because there are times when a guy's just gotta be an asshole, he remains a hairsbreadth from Eames' lips... and then pulls away without kissing him, moving his mouth down the other man's jaw until he finds the right spot.

 

Not difficult to locate, frankly; he knows it almost by heart, now. "The same goes for you," he growls against Eames' stubble, biting down a bit less than gently. Fair's fair, though; Eames bit him.

 

This receives a strangled moan and a shiver from Eames that he doesn’t even bother trying to fight. He’s not particularly quiet about his opinion when it comes to everything else; why should he be when it comes to this? And besides, he’s not sure he could. Arthur may be the death of him, and this time, it’s real. But oh, what a way to go.

 

Needless to say, waking up is a _very_ pleasant experience. The only problem with the whole deal is that afterwards, Eames recalls that work is waiting, and for once, has absolutely no desire to go. Also, he has no room key. Which means a trip down to the front desk in the same clothing he had been wearing the night before. Not that it will be even slightly awkward for Eames, but he does feel a bit of sympathy for the person working the front desk, what with his show the night before when he wanted Arthur’s room number. Maybe it will be someone else, and they don’t speak to one another. Perhaps the scowling woman from down the hall will be there!

 

Sprawled once again all over Arthur’s bed, and partially Arthur, or Arthur is on him, Eames isn’t really recovered enough to know, Eames withholds a sigh. “I suppose I ought to acquire a room key.”

 

"Probably," Arthur agrees, wondering if what they'd just done counts as enough exercise for him to skip his morning regimen. But no, he reminds himself. If he skips it once, he's likely to skip it again. He has to do it. And not in a minute, now, or he won't have time for a shower. And that, he does need.

 

He sits up, and with a wicked sort of grin, slaps the other man's ass lightly. Well, it's right there. Impossible to resist, frankly. "If you can walk that far." Heh.

 

Before Eames can retaliate, if he's intending on retaliating, he's rolled off the bed, locating his boxer-briefs and pulling them on before dropping to his push-ups. He does fifty, then switches to sit-ups, done in under five minutes as always. Both exercises are done with military precision, as they have been since he left the marines, and when he stands to stretch out the kinks in his shoulders, he's barely winded.

 

When he’s finished, he finds Eames, now seated on the bed, watching him shamelessly the same way he’d always watched him before with his trousers on. Frankly, the man is making it hard to leave. The scenery in here can’t possibly be matched by going back to his own room and showering. In fact, Eames is so distracted by this display that he hadn’t even made a retort, yet, to either the comment or the fact that Arthur had just slapped his ass.

 

Then again, time spent watching Arthur- or rather, Arthur’s muscles, Eames won’t lie- did allow him a couple of minutes to think. Arthur had just slapped him on the arse, voluntarily, as though it was nothing. Of course he was being an arse about it at the time, but that’s just natural harassment. As per their discussion the night before… slapping him playfully just about anywhere _isn’t_ particularly natural. Eames doesn’t know what this means, but it takes the harshness out of any retorts forthcoming.

 

“You’re trying to make me miss a shower purposefully,” he accuses, then, withholding a sigh, stands and finally begins pulling on yesterday’s clothing. It’s a bit scattered, but there are only so many places it could all have gone, in a hotel room. Pants on and beginning to button his shirt in the same automatic, almost strangely careful way he has always dressed, Eames sends a wink Arthur’s way. “Don’t worry about me, love, what did I say about recovery time?” Now fully clothed, Eames’ hand goes to his front pocket, first, checking for his totem, then his back- wallet is there. He fingers the totem for a moment before deciding to let it go. Eames… doesn’t know what he would do if this turned out to all be a dream.

 

"Yeah, yeah." Scratching the back of his head, Arthur rolls his eyes and makes for the bathroom. "If your recovery time is that quick, I obviously didn't try hard enough."

 

There's a brief pause, during which he has to move past Eames to reach the bathroom; normally, he would turn his body sideways so as not to brush into the other person, in that type of situation. This time, however, he hesitates for less than a second before letting his shoulder bump Eames' lightly. "See you at the office?" he checks, raising a brow. Not having cars, carpooling would be difficult. That, and he admits to wanting to maintain a little privacy, at least while this is so new. And new it really, really is. But he doesn't think Eames will mind; regardless, just now, when they have to be getting ready, is not the time to have that discussion.

 

Smiling a bit at the unexpected contact, Eames nods, heading for the door. Time to retrieve a key to his room, speed-shower, and get on task. Well. On a task that isn’t Arthur. Arthur is a much more pleasant task, if he is indeed a task at all. But work is important, to both of them, and the job looms.

 

“Yes,” Eames agrees. “Cheers.” He’s literally halfway out the door when he pauses, turns, and then asks, “If I said you _hadn’t_ tried hard enough, would you be angry and hit me, or angry and work very hard to _prove_ yourself? It’s just that you’ve got this angry expression that’s-” The expression on Arthur’s face both makes Eames laugh and hurry out the door, laughing, “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” and shutting the door before he can be punched.

 

Arthur spends a few seconds glaring daggers at the closed door, but then he grins to himself, shaking his head and stepping into the bathroom, hopping into the shower a moment later.

 

Twenty minutes finds the point man in his usual excellently-cut suit and leaving the hotel room, carry-on bag over his shoulder. He won't be coming back here, once the job is finished; he knows from experience that Eames won't be, either.

 

He's thinking about what will happen with the two of them after they complete their work that afternoon, but has just convinced himself to stay in the present for the moment when the door across the hall opens, and a middle-aged woman steps out, glowering at him before sticking her nose in the air and stalking off down the hallway.

 

Arthur stares after her for a beat or two, nonplussed, and then shrugs, heading for the elevators. One arrives just as he reaches the elevator bank, and he ends up sharing one with the bad-tempered woman; ironically, just as their elevator reaches the lobby, he spots Eames turning away from the front desk and catches his eye, brows raised. The woman glares even more viciously at Eames before turning and stomping towards the hotel restaurant, leaving behind a very confused point man.

 

"I didn't think we were that loud," he observes once he catches up to the forger, pleased that their timing had worked out so well, completely unintentionally. "She's across the hall from me." He hands his room key to the desk attendant, who nods and wishes him a good day.

 

 

Eames pauses to lean against the front desk, watching the woman stalk off, before turning the pleasant, completely innocent smile he'd given the woman as she'd glared at him upon Arthur. She is, of course, the very same woman who had glared at him the night before. Undoubtedly she was also displeased by the fact that once he'd stopped shouting in the hallway, Eames had stayed in that room all night and the two of them had clearly had a _lovely_ time.

 

"I didn't think so either," he says cheerfully, absolutely certain that she hates him thoroughly, and completely pleased. His mood was already fairly pleasant. Her vicious glaring has served only to make Eames borderline cheerful. "I suppose it's possible she spent half the night with her ear pressed against the door, hoping to hear something that would give her a chance to practice her glower." Otherwise, he has _no idea_ why she might be so very angry.

 

"Jealousy does strange things to people." Arthur isn't overly concerned, although it is amusing. He shifts his overnight bag on his shoulder, heading for the door, where he looks around for a cab. There are enough on the street that it only takes a couple of minutes to hail one, and he walks around to the other side of the car as the forger, having been in Miami much longer than he'd been, hefts a suitcase into the trunk.

 

"Airport?" the cabbie asks, and Arthur wonders if ridiculous reggae music is permanently built into all taxis, or just the ones he's taken recently.

 

"No," he says, relaying the address as Eames slides in and shuts his own door.

 

Eames doesn’t seem to mind the music; on the other hand, he _did_ profess a strange sort of admiration for Lady Gaga, so his musical choices are rarely anything to go on. And so the taxi ride is mostly silent, at least on their parts, but not awkward- Eames is mostly trying not to wonder the same thing that Arthur is not wondering, and deciding instead to consider Jonas. Jonas, Jonas. Jonas today- not the time for Eames’ worries. It’s easy- too easy?- to let all of his worries go for a time, and Eames fully intends to do just that.

 

They make it there in record time; the cabby appears to be the most psychotic of all the psychotic Miami drivers, and so he wins out, making it through traffic expertly. Eames pays before Arthur can, figuring that if they’re going to go halfsies on a cab when they both just made a ton of money, they can work it out inside, instead of dealing with the driver. The guy drives off almost before Eames shuts the trunk, and he sighs, dragging his suitcase onto the sidewalk near their building. There’s still a bit of a walk; they rarely go right to the exact building.

 

Amused at the speed with which the driver took off, Eames looks over at Arthur. “Oh, good, you made it out, I’d hoped he hadn’t taken you with him.”

 

"No, I managed to roll out before he gunned it." Brushing an imaginary speck of dirt from his shoulder, Arthur starts down the sidewalk to the office building, holding the door for the forger since he has his suitcase. When they reach the office, they find all of the working paraphernalia that had been littering the space to be neatly cleaned up, and shredded if necessary. Pete's there with his coffee but Young hasn't arrived yet, the younger man sitting on one of the desks, with the PASIV next to him in its silver case.

 

"Good morning," Arthur says simply, setting his bag down and checking his watch. They're just a minute or two early, so Young has some time, and they'll need to leave to reach the oral surgeon, where their target is about to have two teeth removed while sedated, at noon.

 

“Morning,” Pete says, cleverly omitting the “good,” probably because he looks as happy about being awake right now as Eames was to be alive at all when he was puking his insides out yesterday. Maybe less so. Pete is clearly not a morning person.

 

Eames, who isn’t in a bad mood at all, takes a bit of pity on him and doesn’t say a single thing that could be construed as harassment. At least not yet. He does wonder if much was accomplished yesterday (as he hadn’t shown up at all, for obvious reasons which he’s sure both Pete and Young are aware of), and can only assume, as no one is running around in a panic (and by “no one” he means Arthur isn’t), that things are set.

 

“We thought you might’ve died of alcohol poisoning,” Pete adds after a moment, in much the same tone as Eames imagines a zombie would speak, were zombies capable of speech at all, which he is pretty sure they wouldn’t be, but he isn’t certain.

 

He decides not to ask, because Young walks in at that moment, and they’ll be leaving soon. Instead, he just puts a hand over his heart. “Your concern is touching.”

 

Arthur snorts, muttering something under his breath about Eames' liver being on its last legs, but he turns to greet Young then, and then they're on their way in the extractor's rental car. At the oral surgeon's, all four of them change into the scrubs Arthur had acquired previously, Arthur and Young pulling on white doctor's coats overtop. Arthur's mind is of course on the job, but he really can't help noticing how the cotton shirt clings to Eames' torso.

 

Later, he reminds himself more reluctantly than he would ever admit. They're on the job; there's no time for other thoughts.

 

They wait in a side room until the surgeon knocks lightly on the door, and they file inside, the point man pulling the silver briefcase from where it had been hidden in one of the cabinets.

 

"Ten minutes," the surgeon warns, taking the envelope Young hands him as Pete, Arthur, and Eames set up the PASIV and the folding chairs. Arthur makes sure Pete has the headphones and tape player set, and then slides the needle into his own arm, glancing over at Eames and then at Young.

 

The extractor nods. "Go, Pete."

 

They all close their eyes almost simultaneously, falling asleep as soon as Pete nods and presses the button on the PASIV—

 

\- and then, inside an office building, all glass and steel, the sort of modern office that enormous corporations construct to impress their clients and competitors alike. This one, of course, is a pharmaceutical company; not a duplicate of the actual office building, no, but then, in a dream, that doesn’t matter. For all intents and purposes, this is the office of Scott & Clancy Pharmaceuticals, where June Miller works every day. It doesn’t matter that it actually looks nothing like the building as she remembers it.

 

It doesn’t matter at all, actually, because what matters to Jonas Cooper- unaware that there had been no preamble, no beginning to this- is that June is here, and that men are after her. He doesn’t know why, except that she’s damn good at her job and of course someone would try to go after her, that’s just what Miami is like, but he knows it’s the truth and he has to find her. There is a very small sliver of knowledge in the back of his mind that this isn’t as it seems, that something isn’t right or normal, but he ignores it along with the men following him, brought along to protect June.

 

He makes an immediate beeline for the front desk, where stands a security guard that serves as a receptionist- he doesn’t fucking know- and slams both hands down on the counter there, disregarding manicured nails (tastefully manly, of course), and gives the man back there roughly no time to react before starting in. “I need to see June Miller, it’s urgent.” This isn’t a question, or a request, but very obviously a demand, and the man blinks at him.

 

“Sir, can I please have your name—“

 

Jonas looks somewhere between murderous and disbelieving that the guy didn’t know him on sight. “Jonas Cooper, asshole, I’m her boyfriend, I come here three times a week—listen, I need to see her ten minutes ago.”

 

“Mr. Cooper, if you’ll just give me a minute to get you a visitor’s pass, I’ll have you right upstairs in no time…” The guy looks suitably flustered by all of this; Jonas, sensing weakness through his Armani sunglasses, pounces, finger pointed right in the guy’s face. “Here’s the thing, dickhead, if I’m not upstairs looking at her in thirty seconds or less, this whole place is going to be slapped with a lawsuit so long you won’t know where to stick it, but I sure as hell will have a suggestion.” And that is how they end up on the elevator to the ninth floor in less than thirty seconds, without being shot at once.

 

Impassive as always in his black suit (Young matches him), Arthur withholds a smile expertly, but he does spare a brief few seconds during the elevator to wonder how Eames had managed not to kill Jonas Cooper while playing personal assistant half the week. They reach the top floor rather quickly, and it's rather more amusing than Arthur would admit to watch Eames/Jonas Cooper strut off the elevator and stride right back to an office in the rear of the building. He pushes the door open with a flourish, storming inside and whipping his sunglasses off to great dramatic effect.

 

Behind a glass desk, and in front of a wall that is actually entirely glass, June Miller looks up from her computer and smiles, surprised. "Jonie," she says, standing and sashaying over to him. Her hair is long, dark and sleek, and despite the obvious money that has gone into her appearance (and Arthur will admit that she's attractive, although he doesn't go for the maneater type), she's approximately a decade older than her boyfriend. Er. Eames.

 

She makes it almost entirely across the room to him before Jonas holds out a hand, stopping her with an urgent gesture, hands on her shoulders as he leans in to speak to her. “June,” he breathes, all kinds of relief in her name, along with several parts drama. “Thank God you’re okay.”

 

Obviously used to this behavior, June just blinks at him. “What do you mean—of course I’m okay. What’s—who are they?”

 

Jonas turns to look at Arthur and Young behind him for the first time, arm sliding around June’s shoulders in an expertly possessive move, he turns the both of them to face the two men. “These are the guys I brought to protect you, June. C’mon, we have to go, there’s no time to explain.”

 

June is pushing against him, asking "Go where- protect me from what?!" when Arthur spies the glint of one of the tall buildings across the way opening. She'd almost succeeded in pulling free and Arthur doesn't even have time to consider rolling his eyes at the display before there's a cracking sound and the glass wall shatters.

 

"Sir!" He and Young have moved both Eames/Cooper and Miller down near the floor, and Arthur straightens to return fire as Young shoves the other two into the elevator. Arthur steps back into it, still firing until the elevator doors close. "Our car is waiting out back, Sir, Ma'am. Ma'am, I'd advise you to stay down, as they're trying to kill you."

 

June Miller is gasping, her heart pounding as she stays safely (more or less) within the circle of Jonas Cooper's arms. "Why are they trying to kill me?"

 

There's no time for anyone to answer her before the elevator doors open, and he and Young push them out of the way of the gunfire being directed in their direction by the sudden slew of black-clad gunmen all converging on them from throughout the maze. They take out the four in the lobby, however, and then they're running through the back corridor, through the kitchen- a projection jumps out in front of them, gun aimed at Eames' head, but Arthur aims and double-taps him without hesitation, the back of the projection's skull exploding. Behind him, June Miller shrieks at the spray of blood.

 

All of this seems to happen in about 1.5 seconds, and June might be shrieking her ass off, but Jonas, luckily, does no such thing. In fact, eyes wide, he just stares at the man as he falls to the floor before being yanked along by Young. This snaps him out of it (they were supposed to be shooting at June, not him), and he strengthens his hold on June, half-dragging her out of the kitchen and to the back door to the sounds of copious gunfire.

 

There are men out there, too, but Arthur goes out first, and is shooting even as he opens the door; Young half-shoves the both of them in, slamming the door shut behind them and cutting Young and Arthur off from the sound of June Miller hyperventilating and shrieking in turns.

 

Jonas doesn’t get any such break, landing half on top of her in the back seat of the van, the both of them tumbling down and her with her arms (surprisingly strong) clenched around his middle as she holds on for dear life. “Choking-me-June-“ Gasp. “-you’ll be fine.”

 

June doesn’t seem impressed. She is so not impressed that she nearly destroys his eardrums. “WHY ARE THEY TRYING TO KILL ME, JONAS?!”

 

“How the hell should I know, June, what have you done lately to piss people off?”

 

The sound of gunfire stops after a couple of minutes, and Young slides into the driver's seat, followed by Arthur into the passenger seat. The van accelerates rapidly, tires squealing as they pull away from the curb, and this makes June fall against Jonas, who looks more than slightly annoyed (and terrified) by all of this. But she still hasn't let go of his middle, and Arthur rolls his eyes from the front side, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a syringe. He holds up the needle, tapping it, as in the back, Jonas tries to console June somewhat, which would work better if he didn't sound entirely frustrated, but hey, it's not Arthur's job to comment.

 

It is his job to climb up out of his seat and crouch down behind the mark, and without a word stick the needle into her upper arm, pressing in the plunger. Jonas (because, he realizes, there is nothing of Eames in his eyes at all right now, this close up, and that's more than a little freaky) shouts, slapping the syringe out of his hand and looks completely shocked and horrified. Arthur grabs his shoulder, ignoring any attempts by the forger to struggle and shove his hand away.

 

"Eames," he says firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Wake up."

 

It’s the hand that does it, along with his name in that very familiar tone—there’s a pause, the struggling gradually lessening, and then Jonas blinks at Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, stares for a moment, glances up at his reflection in the window… and then he turns back, and Eames stares back up at Arthur. Unfortunately still wearing Jonas' suit, but there’s not much to be done for that.

 

There’s a slight pause; Eames is fighting to get his bearings and at the same time trying to keep from falling out of the seat, what with a now-unconscious June Miller half on top of him and Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, it strikes Eames very suddenly, like an anchor. It’s a shock to be pulled out of a forgery like that, but one Eames has grown accustomed to over time, because frankly, things don’t always go as expected and you can’t always count on a smooth transition. In fact, things going smoothly seems to be the outlier, in this kind of work...

 

“A twat,” he says after a moment, and he sounds like Eames again, too. “Didn’t I say he was a twat? Can we get her off of me, or am I sleeping like so?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Arthur leans forward and lifts the woman, carefully settling her into one of the middle seats. No need to be rough, even if she is the mark. And even if, beyond that, he really doesn't like her, although he has no logical explanation for that.

 

It's a relief to see Eames as Eames again, even briefly, since he'll have to be Jonas again in the next dream level; he slips the needle into June Miller's wrist, buckling her in, and grabs a second tube for himself as Eames readies the PASIV. Over his shoulder, he says to Young, "Drive carefully, all right? Last driver who did this flipped the van over an embankment."

 

Young snorts. "I'll play the music when it's time."

 

Arthur narrows his eyes, wanting to point out that he really doesn't want to have to deal with anymore anti-gravity situations, but this time at least getting killed or killing themselves will wake them up back to this level. That's something, he supposes. He glances back at Eames, one corner of his mouth crooking upward very, very briefly, and buckles himself in. "Ready."

 

Spotting the near-smile, Eames returns it with a more full one of his own, buckling himself in and moving to put the needle into his wrist as well. His hand hovers over the PASIV for a moment, and very briefly, Eames wonders why Arthur had said “wake up.” But then he nods to the point man, not one to waste time, and mumbles, “Onward,” and presses the button.

 

The next moment, Jonas is in a house- mansion, really- and he knows, somehow, that this must be June’s parents’ house out in the country, or what she says is the country, he doesn’t know what that means. New Hampshire?

 

And there’s some sort of dinner party, but the guest list is small, and for that, he is grateful. Not because he doesn’t like parties, but because it’s June’s parents’ house and they’re all fucking old people and old peoples’ children. As per June, but she doesn’t count. He doesn’t say this to her when she comes out to meet him on the balcony. Instead, he goes with the standard, “You look beautiful.”

 

In the caterer staff's uniform, Arthur walks past them with a tray of champagne flutes; they each take one as June leans up to kiss Jonas' cheek and thank him, and Arthur makes a point to hold the tray entirely steady when his hand shakes. Damn. Young must be a shittier driver than he'd thought.

 

Once inside, having made sure Eames is with June and distracting her, he slips away from the crowd once his tray is empty and makes for the kitchen, where he proceeds to step into the walk-in freezer... and through a hidden door in the back, shutting it behind himself and finding himself in a waist-high air duct. The rest of the projections will be trapped in the maze of a house, but Arthur cuts straight through that, on his way through to the center of the house and Mr. Miller's study, in which is an impressive-looking safe, hidden behind a portrait of, not surprisingly, June Miller.

 

He opens the safe without difficulty with the password Pete had given him, scanning the documents inside quickly and raising a brow at the ragged old teddy bear, and... he blinks at a photo of Miller, much younger, with an equally-young man in a marine uniform. The college fiance, he recalls, putting the picture back inside but tucking the papers into his coat after memorizing their contents.

 

It's too easy, he thinks, but he continues on back to Eames anyway, everything going according to plan. Nothing seems out of place; no projections seem to be particularly interested in him, and he carries another tray of champagne out onto the terrace, where he sees June Miller leaning upwards, closer and closer to Jonas-

 

"More champagne, ma'am?" he interrupts politely, sending her what he hopes is a charming smile, but which has more teeth than are probably necessary. His eyes meet Eames', and see only Jonas. Making a sudden decision, he lets the tray waver slightly... and it tips into Jonas Cooper's shoulder, sending amber liquid splashing down the arm and side of his white suit. "I'm so sorry, sir, I'm so sorry, I tripped, I'll get you some club soda- "

 

Luckily, even Jonas isn't enough of a jerk to attack a waiter at a party for spilling something all over him, but from the glare he sends Arthur (lacking any sunglasses, this time, as it's dark out), it looks like it's a near thing. Swearing loudly, he half-pushes June off of him (she looks shocked herself by this turn of events), growling, "Fucking hell, what is wrong with you?!" in Arthur's general direction before promptly storming off, muttering very loudly something about someone being fired as he makes his way inside, leaving June to glower at Arthur _for_ him. And she does, before launching into what appears to be a borderline lecture that is dripping in condescension.

 

Jonas, meanwhile, storms right past all of the partygoers (none of whom look surprised by this behavior) and into the nearest bathroom to survey the damage. Of course the suit is _white_ , so this will show up fucking _everywhere_ , and a glance in the mirror proves that without a doubt. There it is, champagne all down his fucking side--

 

He actually does a double-take, blinking at himself in the mirror... and then blinking again, scrutinizing himself very closely. This mirror is normal, but the one on the opposite side of the room (because mirrors facing one another and reflecting off into infinity is normal) is not, and as he squints at it, scrutinizing, he recalls why that should be so... and then the reflections switch in the blink of an eye so that Eames stands staring at himself in the mirror, Jonas reflected secondarily in the other mirror, his scowl reflected where Eames' calmer expression should be. Eames ignores him, having had plenty of practice ignoring strange people in the mirror, and eyes the white suit as the door to the bathroom opens to reveal Arthur, who apparently escaped the lecturing June. Himself once more, Eames gestures to the awful suit covered in champagne. "Looks better this way," he says with a smirk. Then he asks, "Did you get in?" even though he knows very well Arthur wouldn't have come back out and spilled champagne all over him if he hadn't.

 

"Ahead of schedule," Arthur says, nodding and locking the bathroom door behind them. He looks rather smug when he eyes the stain on the suit, although the look he sends Eames himself very briefly is more thoughtful. He doesn't speak his mind, however, pulling out his handgun and offering it to the forger. They're done early; they and Young can get out of the dream and out of the doctor's office... and from there, the hell out of Miami, and this weird feeling of things being off, somehow, can leave Arthur's gut.

 

"Care to do the honors this time?" he offers drily.

 

Despite earlier preferences for not watching anyone shoot themselves or shooting other people, when it comes to dream work Eames is all business, and he takes the handgun from Arthur without argument. He'll be happy to be out of this suit, for one thing, and finished early, he won't have to be Jonas in the level above this. They can get out of here, get Young and get out of there before anyone gets shot involuntarily, and leave with the information they came for. It really is going strangely smoothly.

 

"Why thank you," he says, voice equally dry, and a moment later (sure he's ready), shoots first Arthur, and then himself. They wake in the van, June still sleeping next to them, frowning; the dream is undoubtedly collapsing in on her, now that Arthur, the dreamer, has gone. Eames pays her little attention, pulling the needle out of his arm.

 

"Done early?" Young asks, surprised as he looks in the rearview mirror. "What the hell is this, Christmas?"

 

"I suppose that makes you St. Nicholas," Eames says to a glare through the mirror. He returns the glare with a smile, visible now only as himself in the mirror and out. "Arthur got the information."

 

"Good," Young says shortly. "Leave her and we'll get out of here."

 

"Gladly," Arthur says as Young slows down, veering around a corner quickly and then screeching to a stop. The point man already has June Miller unbuckled and removed from the PASIV; he steps out and sets her down on the grass in front of a building, then hops back in the van. They're speeding off before he gets the door closed.

 

With their release of the mark, the projections stop following them for the most part; no one is shooting at them, now, and Arthur sits back in the seat June Miller had occupied as Young turns sharply into a parking garage, heading for the top level. He's speeding for the edge of the top level, and Arthur spends the brief few seconds before they hit the side going through what they're meant to be doing as soon as they wake. Unhook the PASIV from June Miller, make their casual, unnoticeable escape, call Walsh with the information (well, he's the one who has to do that), and then vanish.

 

"I hate this part," he mutters perhaps two seconds before they're jolted by the collision with the edge of the roof... and then they're in midair.

 

Eames has a moment to look over at Arthur, sympathizing completely. The falling part, that's the worst part of the dreams. Waking up is always a shock, unless it's done naturally. Eames has never much liked it either, and is sure he's never met anyone who has. But it's better than shooting yourself in the head--

 

Waking back up in the dental surgeon's office should be disorienting, but isn't, really. Long training has taught all of them to wake quickly, at least while on the job, and all three of them do, much to Pete's surprise. "Problems?"

 

"The opposite," Young says, pulling the needle out of his arm and standing while Eames does the same and Arthur unhooks June Miller. Young points at the PASIV next to Pete, who starts packing up immediately. "Let's move."

 

They're on their way back out of the building, changed back into street clothes and heading for the main lobby, when Arthur's stride pauses. The back hallway they'd chosen to use to exit to the street is empty of patients, only a few nurses and doctors walking through, all looking as though they're on a mission, but something in his gut is saying... wrong. He looks at the man who'd just passed them, appearing to be completely normal, scrubs and doctor's coat... and then his eyes tick downward, to the dark shoes the man is wearing. Exactly the tell he hadn't liked about their own costumes, earlier.

 

He looks back in the direction they're heading, seeing two men in nurses' scrubs come through the double doors and stop, looking down at clipboards. He swears, hearing a click from behind him. _"Get down!"_

 

He's shoving Young, who'd been the closest to him, just in front of him, behind a gurney before he even finishes shouting the words, gun drawn as the bullets start flying, and he fires back at the single man behind them, ducking into a doorway for cover. If they can take the man behind them out, they can go out via the second route he'd planned. The man falls; he hears a yelp from nearby, and more fire from the other end of the hallway, and from the next doorway down. _"Eames!"_

 

“Pete’s hit!” Eames’ voice comes from the next room over, where he had ducked as soon as he’d heard the click, dragging the architect along with him. But not fast enough, because then the rest of the men with guns show up, and Pete had nearly fallen over, half on Eames, who had dragged him the rest of the way, nearly dropped him, and started returning fire because that shot had come from _far_ too close for comfort.

 

That particular shoot goes down when Eames looks around the corner, aiming, shooting, and ducking back as a bullet whizzes past his head from the direction they’d been heading. Time for the backup plan, and that would be why they have Arthur. Who, Eames notes, sounding practically panicked, just then. He would be more interested in the fact that Arthur sounded that worried if he wasn’t mid-feeling relieved himself that Arthur remains un-shot enough to be worried about him in the first place.

 

Right now, there are more important things, like getting out of here. And getting Pete out of here. Back in the room, Eames finds Pete halfway to the floor, sliding back against the wall and clutching at his leg. Quick inspection suggests it’s not fatal, but he’s not going to be much good walking, and all of the blood has drained out of his face- he’s gone into shock. “Fuck,” Eames mutters, then pulls the architect up, shoving a shoulder under his arm and putting an arm around him to support his weight on one side, gun in the other. Not the best position to be in, but hell if he’s leaving the kid behind. Especially when he’s staring at Eames like that, shocked and terrified. Eames smiles at him, surprisingly calm and gentle, considering. “You’ll be fine,” he assures him quietly. “Come on, we’ll get you out of here and then you’ll have a war wound. Women love that.”

 

Pete’s returning smile is weak, but better than no response, and Eames turns them both towards the door, supporting almost all of Pete’s weight. He’s built to handle that, though, and so it’s probably lucky he was the one with Pete. “I have him,” he half-shouts to Arthur over the gunfire. “We’re a bit shaky.” Which hopefully Arthur understands as “cover us.”

 

Young looks more angry than afraid, which Arthur will take easily enough; the extractor shoves Arthur's hand away, clearly displeased at being pushed aside, but the point man doesn't stop to argue. "Two at the other end," he mutters to the other man. "Cover us from behind?"

 

Young nods, and Arthur calls up to Eames, "Give me a second." He looks up at the windows, sees the two at the other end by their reflections; one is covered by another doorway, and one is crouched behind a gurney, but hasn't noticed the reflections yet. He crouches down so he's out of that one's line of sight, ducks out, and fires.

 

The man falls back against the wall, a bullet hole between his eyes, and Arthur ducks back as the partner starts to fire as well. There'll be more. But right now, there's only one to deal with, and he nods to Young, who leans out and lays down enough cover fire for Arthur to get out of the doorway and begin some of his own. "Go!" And the third gunman stays pinned down by both of them, leaving Eames to get Pete out of this shit-hole.

 

Not hesitating, Eames half-drags, half-carries Pete, trusting Arthur (and Young, he supposes) to cover them because he’s not going to be able to run, carry Pete, and shoot at people. Luckily- well, not really luckily at all, he supposes that would be skill- neither of them get hit again as he goes back the way they came, heading for the secondary exit: the stairs downwards, then to the morgue.

 

Fucking stairs, but carrying Pete bleeding into an elevator full of civilians would be worse. Swearing, Eames kicks the door open, which incidentally happens to smack someone behind it in the face, knocking them over. Eames doesn’t waste time worrying about that, though, once he sees that it’s not one of their pursuers. He pauses for half a second to heft Pete half onto his back in an unfortunately severely awkward form of the fireman’s carry, trying not to hit the kid’s leg.

 

“Hold on,” he half-shouts to Pete, and Pete has just enough time to throw his arms half around Eames’ neck before they take off down the stairs at a dead run. Woe to anyone in their way, too, because Eames fully plans to run anyone in his path the bloody hell over.

 

Much as he really, really hates leaving behind a shooter that could identify them, Arthur keeps firing cover until first Young, then he, are both through the doorway and sprinting after Eames and Pete to the stairwell. Thankfully, the main hallway is full of both doctors and patients and all manner of hospital staff (okay, not full, but there's a good five or six people, most of them shrieking and ducking for cover, obviously they'd heard the gunshots)

 

Arthur does note, as they shove their way into the stairwell and past the guy groaning on the floor with blood gushing from what looks like a broken nose, that all the lights on the hospital cameras are out. Someone shut off the cameras, and clearly dealt with hospital security, as well, because they should have been stopped by a security guard by now. But then, he guesses you don't normally want your goons caught on camera shooting the shit out of someone.

 

The back of his mind is, as always, working calmly and coolly through their route and potential problems, even though most of his brain is currently on hyperdrive thanks to adrenaline. They bolt past the morgue, catching up to Eames, still carrying Pete, and surpassing him. Arthur goes through his mental map of the hospital's layout, and points down a hallway to a set of doors marked employees only. "Through there, I'll get the car." No one argues, and Young leads the way down and out of sight as Arthur keeps going, following his mental route to the side door closest to the lot where they'd parked. Luckily, they're only downstairs from the oral surgery, in the same wing, and so they're parked nearby; he can hear the sirens wailing as he starts the rental's engine.

 

They have approximately two minutes until the hospital's doors will be locked down, its outside gates also locked. He screeches to a stop behind the loading docks, most of the hospital's staff already on their way to designated lockdown areas, so there's no one to stop the other three from piling down the cement steps and into the car. Arthur accelerates, bursting through the closed parking garage gate, just a flimsy bar meant to stop people at the guardhouse.

 

"How's Pete?" he asks over his shoulder, breathing hard. Traffic cameras. Gotta avoid the traffic cameras. He veers off the main road just before an intersection. They need to dump this car.

 

In the back seat, Eames is already pulling off his jacket to apply pressure to the wound in the best way possible considering the rate at which they’re moving; luckily, Pete isn’t at the “scream and flail” stage, but more the “about to pass out” stage, during which all he seems able to do is look terrified and moan a bit. But just as the quick look Eames had gotten at the wound earlier had indicated, this won’t be fatal, provided they stop it bleeding and take proper care of it once they’re out of immediate danger and into less immediate but still pending danger.

 

Eames does a quick once-over the architect after that. All other limbs there and accounted for. Nothing else wrong, aside from the obvious shock. There is precious little to be done for that right now; the situation is certainly providing enough adrenaline to keep him from too much danger, though. Which is… Eames supposes the silver lining of that. Shoddy silver lining, he feels cheated.

 

“He’ll live,” he proclaims to Arthur, checking over the point man as best he can from the back seat. Nothing seems to be wrong, but then, Arthur’s not Pete, he wouldn’t be worrying about it just yet. “Won’t be running a marathon in the next week or so, but then the outdoors was never your favorite place, was it?” He turns to Pete. Pete just stares up at him with the sort of bleak look you see on people who think they’re going to die, and though in this case it’s a bit dramatic, Eames feels for him. But now is not the time. He turns back to Arthur and Young. “Needs to be dealt with, though. What’s the plan?”

 

"Lose the car, find somewhere to deal with it," Arthur mutters. He has an idea or two; he's worked in Miami before, but Young is based here, and he turns to the extractor. "Where can we go?" Not back to the office building, that's for sure, and they still need to contact Walsh. And get paid. He'd really like to get paid.

 

But they just as clearly cannot just drop Pete off at a hospital in Miami, not with those goons after him. "We need to get off the street." They need to get out of Miami, frankly, but it's not going to happen until they get Pete's leg taken care of enough that he'd be safe to travel. So it's lying low until they get paid. He considers for a few minutes... and then swears under his breath, making a u-turn and glancing over at Young. "Feel up to contacting Walsh from a pay phone to ask what the fuck is going on?"

 

He nods, and Arthur hits the gas, heading north.

 

They end up in one of the city's sketchier areas, but Arthur shrugs out of his suit jacket and tie, unbuttoning his shirt a few inches too many, and walks right into the motel office to get them a room for a few hours. The clerk barely glances up at the point man before handing him the key, rabbit's foot keychain swinging as he strides back to the car. It's the room on the end, and they help Pete inside, Arthur shutting the door behind them. Young is off to call Walsh and dump the car, with instructions to ammonia the hell out of the blood in the backseat. "Did it go through?" he asks Eames, pulling the first aid kit out of his bag once they get the kid on the bed.

 

“Yes,” Eames says, moving to unwrap Pete’s leg (Pete has reached the point of being silent aside from moaning and the occasional shout of pain). Eames figures he might as well; he’s already covered in blood. In fact he may have more of Pete’s blood on his clothes than _Pete_ does. It’s uncomfortable, but Eames barely noticed until a moment ago, and won’t do anything about it until Pete is seen to.

 

“I don’t know how clean it was, though,” he adds, eyeing the wound with his ruined jacket removed, then the first aid kit, then Pete’s pants. “Scissors?” There are; Arthur hands them over and Eames cuts the leg of Pete’s already-ruined pants off, eyeing it. Too much congealed blood.

 

The place isn’t exactly sterile would be Eames’ guess, but the bathroom is all they’ve got, and there’s bound to be a towel or two in there that they can use to clean it enough to inspect before the actual cleaning. Eames stands and hurries into the bathroom to do just that, leaving Arthur to inspect the wound himself.

 

He does; he evaluates it as Eames had- messy, but not fatal. "He's right," he says reassuringly, voice a lot gentler than Pete would have heard it before. "This scar'll be a thing of beauty. Women love war wounds, Pete." And this kid is far too young for this. But it's no different from the boys he'd seen shot while he'd served, a lot of them younger than Pete, and he pushes the memories away firmly. No time for that right now.

 

Moving over to the minibar, he pokes around until he finds the shit bottles of vodka stored in there. They don't exactly have morphine, so this is what they're going to have to go on with. Lifting the kid's head enough that he can swallow, he makes sure he takes in a few gulps, then lowers him down again as Eames returns with the towels and hot water.

 

They've got antiseptic, gauze, bandages, and sutures, because Arthur's been shot enough times over the past decade that he'd rather be prepared; he can get some painkillers from the drugstore, to help at least a little after the kid gets some rest, but this is going to be messy as hell, and a shit-load of less than fun for Pete.

 

The kid gets a washcloth to bite down on, and Arthur's hand to clench as he hands Eames things when requested with his free one. It gets a lot more difficult to clean out the wound, though, when he starts to thrash and scream again; Arthur ends up on the bed, hands braced on both Pete's shoulders as he holds him down and keeps him from shoving Eames away. "Easy, kid. Easy. It hurts like a motherfucker, I know it does. Easy."

 

Cleaning Pete up is difficult, and messy. Stitching him up is even more difficult and slightly less messy, but thankfully after the first half (two sides of the leg to do, after all), Pete straight passes out. They make short work of it after that, stitching him up, cleaning again, and carefully covering the wound before they’re finished.

 

Well, finished for now. Pete’ll wake back up sooner rather than later, and Eames doesn’t envy him _that_ experience. There isn’t a doubt in Eames’ mind that this was the first time Pete had been shot in the real world. He hopes, suddenly, as he stands again, even bloodier than he’d been just a few minutes ago, that this is the last. Pete, Eames decides, was not cut out for this. Some people just aren’t, and there’s not much for it.

 

Ruminating on that and how old looking at Pete lying there makes him feel, Eames looks up at Arthur, meeting his eyes. “Thank you. For covering us.” It was teamwork at its finest; Eames never doubted that Arthur would have his back, frankly, which is the sort of thing you don’t really get very often in the criminal world. But then again, dreamwork requires a level of trust… they’d had this discussion. Still, just because he’d known Arthur would do it doesn’t mean that thanks aren’t necessary. But then his mind, though it had been very focused on Pete as they’d stitched him up, can’t help but carry on to other, also important, things. “Any thoughts on how they found us out?”

 

"I didn't, until about half an hour ago." Arthur glances at the clock, then at Pete. "It doesn't take two hours to dump a car and make a phone call." Handily enough, though, Arthur had picked this place for its location... mainly meaning that the car of bangers at the other end of the parking lot, with the semi-automatics and the large bags of coke in their trunk, will not react kindly to interlopers showing up and shooting up their place.

 

And Young had taken orders a bit too easily, from Arthur's perspective. Maybe it's just that he's used to working with Cobb, but he's not normally the one shelling out the directions in a situation like the one they'd been in. He could still be wrong, hopes he is, but he doesn't have any way of knowing at the moment. "He could've gotten grabbed, or they could've tracked down the car before they dumped it. Or he's a really shitty car thief." Or... he sold them out. Either to Miller's people or just now, getting the money from Walsh and running with it. In which case, Arthur is going to hunt him the hell down.

 

Eames’ eyes follow Arthur’s to the clock, and he swears; he hadn’t realized how long it’d been, had been much too intent on Pete, but then, that’s the sort of thing you don’t cock up. And if Young sold them out… there’s nothing for it, they’re going to have to get him out of here and to relative safety themselves, because Eames doubts that the kid has anywhere really safe to go for himself. Not safe enough.

 

“Bollocks,” Eames grumbles, longing to run a hand through his hair, but his hand is caked in blood; he’d washed them before working on Pete, but not after, not yet. Still, he thinks that sums up his feelings quite nicely.

 

Well, maybe not. Because if Young sold them out… he was the one who brought Arthur into this. And why? Was it really as safe as he thought it was? Did they really need Arthur specifically? At the moment, Eames doesn’t care to examine his motives terribly thoroughly, because the idea that he might have gotten Arthur into this mess because of a bout of selfishness had come upon him sits strangely poorly with him. “Yes,” Eames agrees. “it could be any of these things, but we’re two men down and one severe handicap. Assuming the worst doesn’t seem a bad idea to me.”

 

He eyes himself. Having to run quickly will not be done easily looking like this, but there’s only so much he’s going to be able to do. After a moment, he wanders into the bathroom, which considering the fact that this place is smaller than some closets isn’t too far away to carry on a conversation, even with the sink on as he cleans up as best as is possible. “He doesn’t know what you found, but he does know you found it,” he points out. “And Walsh might not know any of this happened. Lord knows she might even be a target now, unlikely since they don’t seem to be keen on taking blatant shots at each other.”

 

No, they just let their employees do it for them; Arthur snorts, at that. Unzipping Eames' suitcase, he pulls out a clean set of clothes, handing them to the forger once his hands are clean. He strips off his own bloody shirt and pants, changing quickly and zipping up the rags in a plastic bag before starting to clean up the medical supplies. "If Young told them I'm the one that knows it, they'll be after my head." Literally. "You and Pete can probably get out more easily."

 

They need a car. Arthur looks down at himself, in just a black tee shirt and slacks, and decides it's enough of a disguise for now, once he pulls on the sunglasses. Besides, it's mother fucking hot. "We need wheels, but it'll take me at least a short time to find a car and get it back here. Fifteen minutes, maybe." During which the bastards could come right back in here, and Eames and Pete would be dead. Clearly they need some other plan, because he's not going with that one.

 

Eames thinks it is a given that he and Pete are not about to abandon Arthur because they would have an easier time without him, but the raised eyebrow he sends the other man should get that point across very quickly. While it is true that Eames' bottom line is almost always the assurance of his own safety, at the same time, it's not surprising or new that he'd be unwilling to leave a team member to fend for himself. Once he's in, he's in, and that's that. And even beyond that... well. Now isn't the time to think about "beyond that." The fact remains that the plan will not be to have Arthur run off on his own.

 

The problem then is that he has no better plan than what Arthur had just suggested. Fifteen minutes is faster than Eames could do that by a great deal; cars aren't exactly his specialty, and that is an understatement. So if the only way out of here is to hold down the fort while Arthur gets them a vehicle... "That might be the only way," Eames says, wandering back out of the bathroom as he finishes buttoning his shirt. "Pete's going to attract a great deal of attention anywhere he goes. He shouldn't leave until we have a way to hide him."

 

There's little choice, frankly, and Eames is about to voice his displeasure about the whole thing when there is a sudden, loud knock on the door. Not surprisingly, immediately two guns are trained on the closed door. They freeze; Eames is inching towards the side of the covered window, about to chance glancing through, when Young's voice calls, "It's me!" But after their discussion of a moment ago... Eames and Arthur share a look; Eames carries on, finally glancing out the window. It's Young, alone and he appears to be unarmed, in the sense that his gun isn't visible. Eames nods to Arthur, then shrugs. Safe as that's getting, but hell if he knows if they should trust the guy.

 

Next to the door, Arthur lowers his gun, then, after a moment... but doesn't put it away. He unlocks the door, pulling it open and letting the extractor again, thinking the entire time that this is really why he hates working with people he doesn't know. Eames, obviously, is excepted from that, but Young and Pete are not, for different reasons of course.

 

Young looks like he's about to tear his hair out, but there's a new car (new in the sense that Arthur hasn't seen it before, not in that it's new, as it's an SUV that looks like it's about twenty years old) sitting outside the hotel room. "I told Walsh what happened. She still wants the information, and now she's got goons watching her ass." He snorts. "She didn't seem all that worried once she heard everyone survived, beyond that she wants what's in your head." He nods to the point man. "She says once you call her, the money will be transferred to our accounts. We don't even need to be in Miami for that."

 

Fair enough. Arthur exchanges another glance with Eames. "What took you so long?"

 

"Do you know how hard it is to steal a car in this city?" The extractor is clearly trying to hold onto his own temper. "All that new electronic shit they put in them these days? I haven't had to steal a car in fifteen years!" He looks back and forth between Arthur and Eames, then at Pete on the bed... then back at Arthur and Eames. "Where the hell did you think I was?"

 

Eames fights the desire to roll his eyes. He knows very well how paranoid and suspicious most people in this line of work, especially those who have just been shot at, can be. And perhaps they were wrong to suspect him, but better safe than sorry, and Eames isn't going to apologize for that. No matter how angry and/or paranoid they all are, it's not going to get them any safer standing here and bitching about it.

 

"Dead in a ditch or gone," he says shortly. "We are thrilled to see you alive and well, Young. Great. That's done. Shall we get the hell out of here now? Dunno about you blokes, but I've had this longstanding aversion to being shot and killed." As he says this, Eames returns to the bed, moving to pick Pete up off of it. They'll need to take the sheets from underneath him and dispose of them somewhere, and depending on whether the blood soaked through, ammonia the hell out of the bed. But first things first, Pete has to get in that car.

 

Naturally, Pete chooses that moment to wake up, in a haze of pain and confusion. "Come on, Pete."

 

"Where're we goin'?" Pete manages to slur through a groan.

 

"Don't worry about that," Eames says with a grunt as he hauls the architect off the bed, literally picking the younger man up, "you're in charge of music on the way. It has to be you, otherwise the task falls to me."

 

"Oh god," Pete groans, and this sounds strangely more coherent than he has been, "No more Lady Gaga."

 

"She did dress up like a frog," Arthur muttered. He'd looked her up. Also tinfoil and meat, as it happens. There's an amused snort from Eames' direction, as Arthur is closing up their suitcases and then pulling out his handkerchief to start wiping the place for prints. He does everything, even things they might not have touched, brain quickly returning to overdrive as Eames mostly carries Pete out to the car.

 

Young is already stripping the bed and pulling out the ammonia, even if it doesn't look like there are any blood spots beneath. Better safe than sorry, and Arthur finds himself sincerely appreciating that philosophy when it comes to potential crime scenes.

 

The three men, barring Pete, work surprisingly well together- this is not shocking for Eames and Arthur, but adding Young into the mix seems to be working out well, at least in terms of efficiency. Arthur isn't certain he buys what Young had said one hundred percent, but that's also not shocking. When Eames comes back in to get something to carry out, Arthur grabs his shoulder.

 

"You... don't thank me. For that. You'd've done the same for me." Yeah, a good half hour too late for this, but things very well may go to shit once they leave, and he doesn't want to let it go unsaid. But Eames knows what it means, to trust someone to have your back that way. They both do. Arthur might have more experience with the feeling, after his long friendship with Cobb, but that doesn't mean he values it any less. Hell, it means more, after the Fischer job.

 

And now they've got to go. But that's said, and he does feel a bit better that he got to say it now.

 

Even though he'd been hurriedly carrying things out to the car, mind on everything that needs to be done before they can get out of here, Eames pauses at this, unable to help the small smile as he looks at Arthur. He fights the urge to put his hand on top of the other man's, even just for a moment. That would be distracting. They can't afford distractions right now. Even very small, inconsequential-seeming ones.

 

"That's inconsequential," he points out. There is a high value on someone who will cover your back. After the Fischer job... Eames thinks he would trust several of those people with that task, but none more so than Arthur. Arthur is loyal, maybe to a fault, a trait that Eames values all the more because he doesn't have it. Not like that. He would have done the same for Arthur, or another team member, yes. But not for the same reasons, not exactly. Except, maybe, in Arthur's case. The idea is not one to explore right now. "You should know I appreciate it. There's no reason to leave it unspoken. I wouldn't have been able to get Pete out of there otherwise."

 

"All right," Young grumbles, walking past in a hurry, "Break up the soap opera, girls, let's go."

 

Eames takes the hint, picking up what he'd come in after and hurrying while he's at it, but not without adding (in the most dramatic tone possible, of course), "But Doctor, all this time he's been secretly married to his mother's half-sister, and if he doesn't get that heart transplant his twin will replace him and take all of the inheritance money-" Until, Young slams the car door, cutting him off.

 

Snorting quietly, Arthur slides into the driver's seat again, glancing back at Pete. The kid looks okay for the moment, and so Arthur accelerates, eyes pealed for anyone coming at them. But they speed past the bangers in the parking lot, a few obscenities hollered after them, and he can't hear any sirens as he heads up the ramp onto the highway. Best to get out of this town, up to Fort Lauderdale or even Orlando, and get away from Florida. No one argues with this plan.

 

"No Lady Gaga," he mutters rather loudly, as they pass a cop car sitting alongside the road. He keeps his speed precisely two miles per hour above the speed limit; it's always seemed like suspicious behavior to him, to drive exactly the speed limit to avoid the cops. "My defective heart couldn't take it."

 

“You are all no fun,” Eames proclaims from the back seat, but he doesn’t sound particularly annoyed. He hadn’t really intended on submitting them all to an entire car ride in which they listen to Lady Gaga. First of all, he’s fairly certain Young would just straight up murder him. Secondly, although keeping Pete’s mind off of his pain is a good idea, making him miserable in other ways is not the way to do it. Aside from that, even Eames isn’t certain he could handle an entire care ride of Lady Gaga.

 

Anyway, he left the music choices up to Pete. “See what you did?” Eames asks, turning to look at Pete, who just blinks back at him, but at least is now reacting to things he says. That is a bonus. Eames wishes they had some sort of real painkillers for him, but it’s not like he carries around Codeine or Vicodin. Aside from the pain he’d have to go through to get that (no pun intended), that’s a good way to get oneself thrown in jail, where people investigate you further.

 

It’ll have to wait. Painkiller in this sense might mean vodka again, but that’s something, at least.

 

They make it out of the city with surprisingly little difficulty; Arthur had kept his sunglasses on during their single stop through the toll booths, and the others had kept their faces away from the cameras. He'd stopped for gas soon after that, buying a disposable cell phone with the idea of calling Walsh as soon as they got off the road. He got some painkillers, Tylenol and Advil, for Pete, as well, returning to Eames once again trying to get the kid involved with conversation.

 

He hands back the painkillers and a bottle of Gatorade. "He's lost too many fluids," he says quietly enough that the mostly-dozing Pete probably won't pay attention. They stop for fast food, then, as well, and Young takes over driving; Arthur makes a face at the limp salad he'd been given. "This has more tortilla chips than lettuce. Pete, how do you feel about some french fries?"

 

“Maybe later?” Pete says, and it comes out more as a question than a statement. Still next to him (and feeling rather more like a parent than he particularly wants to), Eames withholds a sigh. Gatorade and painkillers on an empty stomach is better than nothing at all.

 

“All right, then, Pete,” he says as they move out. “Advil and Tylenol for you, but you can’t have it until you drink half of this, and don’t think I won’t hold your nose and do it for you, mate.” Pete makes a face at that idea. Eames holds out the Gatorade invitingly. “I could also make train or jet noises to make it more exciting,” he says. Pete yanks the Gatorade out of his grip. Eames smiles beatifically. “They grow up so fast.”

 

Young rolls his eyes again, taking a huge bite out of a hamburger, and Arthur makes a face at that sight, looking back over his shoulder to watch Pete drink as they get back on the highway. He takes in the fluids pretty quickly, all things considered, taking a gulp, then pausing to breathe for a minute, then gulping again, and so on. Arthur doesn't turn back around until he's drunk enough to satisfy Eames, who lets him take the painkillers and go back to dozing off, then.

 

"Do you know where his family is?" he asks the forger quietly, glancing over at Young, who shrugs. Not surprising, really. No one in this business is particularly forthcoming about their loved ones, for very good reason. "We can't just drop him off at a hospital. He's not in any kind of shape to lie to the cops about how he was shot."

 

Eames shakes his head; he hasn’t the slightest where Pete’s family is. On the other hand… “He went to the University of Miami,” Eames supplies quietly, leaning forward a bit so that he’s more in the front seat than the back, not that Pete is paying him any mind. That suggests that he is a Florida native, which strikes Eames as very likely. However, the odds of getting his parents’ location out of him aren’t good. Hell, who knows if he wants anything to do with his parents?

 

“We can ask him about it when we stop,” Eames suggests. “It’s that, a friend’s, a hospital, or he goes with one of us.”

 

That idea makes Arthur wince, but Young actually snorts, and the point man sends him a nasty look, despite the fact that he was thinking along similar lines. "He's part of your team and he got shot."

 

"He's patched up." Young is clearly a pragmatist. "Good job with that, both of you, but I can't have some kid tagging along. I've got places to be. Job's done." He shoots Arthur a similarly cool glance. "You two want to play babysitter it's your call, but it's on you. We get paid and I'm walking away from this job. It's gotten too far out of control already."

 

"Good for you." Arthur's tone is flat. "It's not his fault he got shot."

 

"And it's not our job to babysit him. This isn't the Peace Corps. Never heard that either of you was the Good Samaritan type." His gaze goes sideways very briefly to Arthur. "Heard the opposite."

 

The point man goes very still. He's quiet for a moment, but then replies in a low voice, "Do whatever the hell you want, Young. Up to you; you're not my problem."

 

From the back seat, Eames says nothing, not wanting to get involved in the sudden animosity up front. Frankly, after that little exchange, he thinks they’d do better off without the man anyway. If he sees the job as over, he won’t feel beholden to help them rather than just cover his own ass if something goes wrong (again). Eames might not appreciate it, but he can understand that Young’s line has been drawn.

 

His own, however, doesn’t allow for leaving young kids who have just been shot to fend for themselves. Not only would that be cruel, it would be stupid. Leaving Pete alone wouldn’t win them any goodwill with him, and so why would he have any reason to lie for them if he ended up caught or in a hospital? He wouldn’t. It’s both the Good Samaritan thing to do… and the smart thing, which is what really drives Eames to do what he does, most of the time. And Arthur… well. He doesn’t know what Young has heard, but though the point man certainly is a bit more of a badass than Eames would ever admit to him out loud, the man is loyal and very rule-oriented. He’s not going to leave a team member behind and count the job as done because he’s been paid. Even in their world, there’s a difference between how you would treat a civilian or a mark, and how you’d treat someone you work with. It’s really all just good business, Eames thinks.

 

“You guys can just leave me somewhere,” Pete mumbles at him, only partially coherent. Eames sits back in the seat, looking over at the kid. “I’ll be okay.”

 

Eames sighs. “Come on Pete, let’s be realistic,” he says gently, and quietly, having resolved to mostly ignore Young unless direct conversation is vitally necessary, “you still owe me five dollars. Can’t leave you anywhere until you pay me back.”

 

That earns him a very weak laugh, and Pete's eyes flicker open then, staring up at the two men in the front seat. "Damn, think my wallet's probably less than empty now." He's still mumbling, still not very coherent, but he'd obviously heard Arthur and Young's conversation.

 

He stares up at Eames for a minute, but then his eyes close again; Arthur twists in his seat, having heard the conversation, and meets Eames' eyes for a second, brows going up. "We're about an hour from Orlando. Find a decent motel and make the call, and the money will be taken care of." This last is said in a colder tone, but Young doesn't react, although he does step on the gas. Arthur has long since stopped being surprised at the callousness of some members of the human race.

 

They end up with a room on the ground floor of a Red Roof Inn, and Arthur boots up his laptop, pulling out the phone, while Pete collapses on the bed with Eames and Young's assistance. "Walsh," he says mildly. "I guess you're not dead."

 

Walsh’s relief is slightly more evident in her tone, but then again, she’s the one who paid exorbitant amounts of money for this information. Still, her voice is businesslike as usual when she answers. “The same could be said of you,” she says. “I had no idea this would escalate to physical violence, or I would have warned you.”

 

That’s about as close to an apology as they’ll get, but then, she’s the one paying the bills. And it’s not her fault June Miller apparently hired an army to protect her. “Young said you had the information and that you had all made it out of the hospital.”

 

"Yes," Arthur says carefully. "We all got out." He doesn't give her any further information than that, nor does he relay any information on Pete's wound, not even to make the woman feel guilty, because that would be pointless, frankly. This is a dangerous business, and there's a reason why he never goes anywhere without two firearms on his person.

 

Pete's young, barely more than a kid, and that thought makes Arthur feel old as hell. He'd been younger than Pete when he'd left the service and started making a name for himself in the criminal world. But, he's fairly sure, looking back at Pete, that he wasn't that young even at twenty-two.

 

He rattles off the information Walsh had wanted, everything he'd found inside the safe, and gives her their account numbers. Keeping her on the phone, he waits until Young, watching the laptop, nods to him. All four have gone through. "Everything appears to be in order, thank you." He pauses. "We were curious if you knew how Miller's people found out about us."

 

Walsh pauses, but then responds after a moment, “I don’t. But it’s possible she has my house under watch.” She lets it go at that, clearly not wanting to elaborate, and just as clearly not actually certain whether or not this is the truth. She doesn’t seem the type to go around discussing her plans to have extractors go after her competitors, so if she is being watched, it would have to be _very_ closely.

 

“I wish I knew,” she admits, then returns to more businesslike conversation. “Thank you. Should anyone appropriate ask, I would certainly recommend any of you.”

 

"We appreciate it." Arthur glances over his shoulder at Eames. "Good luck, Ms. Walsh." She returns the sentiment, and he closes the phone, turning it off and slipping it into his pocket with the intent to dispose of it as soon as he passes a dumpster and wipes the phone for his prints.

 

He turns to look at Walsh. "Job's done. Nice working with you." His tone is entirely bland, although after the small discussion they'd had in the car, he thinks his sentiments about the extractor are clear enough. Still, this is business, and he stands and offers his hand, which Young takes, appearing to feel approximately the same for Arthur as Arthur does for him.

 

After that and a brief handshake with Eames as well (Eames seems more interested in getting rid of him than anything), Young leaves without another word, presumably to take the stolen car and get gone while the getting’s good. Eames still figures they’re better off without him anyway, so this doesn’t bother him terribly.

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed next to Pete (who has, thankfully, passed out completely), Eames looks up at Arthur. “I was hoping to ask him about a place to take him,” he says quietly, “but I don’t have it in me to wake him just yet.”

 

Arthur shakes his head in agreement, rubbing the back of his neck and stretching it a bit as he moves to sit next to the forger. "Talk about a day gone to shit," he mutters. And now, now that it's at least a bit calmer, he can recall that it had started out so well.

 

He looks over his shoulder at the sleeping architect, letting out a breath and turning to stare forward at the door. "When the job was done, I meant to ask you where you're headed." His tone is dry. "I was going to say we should get a beer." But now they have Pete, shot in the leg, and a small army of armed professionals after them, possibly even now. This motel room isn't going to last them the night; they're going to have to get moving before long, which once again will not be wonderful for Pete's health. But better that than dead, Arthur supposes.

 

Eames can’t help but chuckle a little at that. Yes, a beer would have been nice, but unfortunately, all things considered, it doesn’t seem like the best of ideas. Which is a shame, because Eames also remembers how nice the day had seemed that morning. It was a good morning. He supposes things just have to even out that way.

 

“Would have been nice,” he says, not ashamed to admit it. A beer with Arthur. Who would have thought? Even yesterday… well, not him. Hoped, maybe.

 

As for where he’s headed… “Dunno where. I haven’t lined anything up yet. Which is just as well, because fleeing anywhere too specific would be a bit too predictable for comfort, considering.” Considering the men following them around trying to kill them, that is.

 

"No argument here." Arthur rests his hands on his knees. "I was going to head back to New York, but all things considered... I may not, now." He has no idea. "There's always the hope that now that Walsh has what she wants, they'll give up on us." No point to it, now, really. It takes a lot of money to put together a team like that and send it after a bunch of guys. A broad search, out of state or even out of the country, even more so, if you hire decently talented people.

 

Behind them on the bed, Pete groans quietly. "Eames..."

 

They both turn, but the architect has barely opened his eyes. "C'n I have m'r drugs yet?"

 

Sadly, Eames can understand how important that might be to Pete at the moment. Also sadly, it’s only been an hour since the first time Eames gave him any drugs, and then he probably allowed the kid too many. And Eames would be really frustrated that he’d interrupted this particular conversation, but he can’t be particularly frustrated with the guy who got shot. He hasn’t even burst into tears, yet. Tougher kid than Eames had assumed, he’ll give Pete that.

 

“Not just yet, mate,” Eames says quietly, patting the architect gently on the arm. “Just hold on. We’re working on it.”

 

Which is… well, not really a lie. They _are_ trying to figure out what to do with him. Eames glances over at Arthur, then back to Pete after a moment. “Not to pry, Pete-“except it is absolutely prying… “-but we were wondering if you had any family or friends who could take care of you nearby. Or maybe take you to see a doctor.”

 

Pete blinks blearily at them, eyes fogged. With pain, Arthur knows from experience; he's sympathetic to that, and his thoughts are running along the same lines as Eames'. Pete's stronger than he'd expected. He gets up to go to the mini-fridge to grab a couple of ice cubes if there are any made, in an effort to keep the kid hydrated, just as Pete mumbles an answer.

 

"Omaha. Folks are in Omaha."

 

Arthur very nearly fumbles the glass, sending a few ice cubes onto the carpet. Flushed and looking rather like a cat who'd missed a jump and then stood up, pretending as though that had never happened, he tosses those in the trash, re-filling the glass and carrying it over to the bed as Pete elaborates. "Came to Miami for school. I can get back there, though." The kid's voice is tight; Arthur ignores the curious look Eames is sending him. "You guys don't have to do anything else. I heard what Young said." He lets out a shaky breath. "We got paid. I can get myself home."

 

"Don't be stupid," Arthur says shortly. "We're not going to let you wander off, shot."

 

But as he turns to grab their bags, he looks decidedly less composed than usual. Omaha. Fucking hell.

 

Not currently being completely done in by a shot to the leg, _Eames_ notices Arthur’s reaction. Of course, despite the fact that he _is_ that nosy at times, Eames won’t just straight ask Arthur what the hell _that_ was about. Right now. Maybe later. Right now, Pete is here, and frankly, Eames feels like a bit of a heel for asking personal sorts of questions when he’s not likely to reciprocate.

 

Besides, if they’re going to be going to fucking _Nebraska_ , they clearly have to get going. He eyes Arthur, who is already getting the bags. “That’s a day’s drive, straight there,” he points out. “At least.” Because there’s no way they could possibly get that kid on a plane in the condition he’s in.

 

Then he pauses. “Also, we’re down one car at the moment.” Assuming Young took the car they’d come in.

 

Arthur pauses, setting down the bags. That's a very good point, and where the hell is his head? He sighs, running a hand over the back of his head. "That, I can take care of." Orlando, they're in Orlando... yeah, he can get them a car. He doesn't know the town very well, but by unspoken preference they'd gotten a motel room in a shittier area of town, plus it's getting dark soon.

 

"We can be there by morning." He pauses, waiting until Eames looks at him, makes eye contact, before continuing. "I can be back soon. How are you on ammo?"

 

By morning? Eames clearly doesn’t believe this statement even slightly. His grasp on geography is pretty good, he thinks, but even someone with very little geographical knowledge would know that that’s impossible. Not only that, but the fact that Arthur had forgotten their lack of car entirely boggles the mind a bit, so Eames eyes him for a moment before looking away, considering the question of ammo.

 

“Good, I’d say, I haven’t shot anyone at all today,” he points out, although that’s not strictly true. He shot himself and Arthur, in the second dream level. But that doesn’t count in terms of ammo up here. Eames spends a moment eyeing the suitcases and wondering what the hell is in Omaha that has Arthur so forgetful. And prone to dropping things. “Hopefully the trend will continue. For what it’s worth, I think you’re insane. It’s half the country away.” The very, very large country.

 

"Fine, midmorning," Arthur says with a very slight eye roll. He glances back at the forger again, and then nods slowly. "I'll be back."

 

And sure enough, within an hour he is, driving an old, green Corolla that's admittedly seen better days but, when he'd checked the engine, seems to be okay to him. Nothing glaringly obvious is wrong, which would be about all he'd be able to notice. He's not really a car man. He can change oil, change tires, figure out that something that's smoking is probably broken... yeah, that's about it.

 

But it runs, it's gassed up, and it's wearing the plates from a green Honda Civic he'd found in a parking lot a few miles from where he'd stolen this car. He knocks on the motel room door, identifying himself, and is relieved to find Eames opening the door, not shot. "Got us wheels." In case the forger couldn't tell.

 

Forgoing the “no shit” comment, Eames regards Arthur (with car) with the same sort of relief. He trusts the man to be able to go get a car, no problem. The only thing is that getting a car while being pursued by men with guns becomes much more difficult. Eames can only hope that this means they are no longer being chased by men with guns. That would make this whole situation a thousand times better.

 

“I see that,” he says, opening the door further to allow Arthur in as he adds, “I’ll get Pete.”

 

It seems to have become his job to carry Pete around, Eames wouldn’t want to break with tradition now. And carry he does, picking up the half-asleep architect and carrying him bodily to the car, where he’s placed more or less lying down in the back seat so that his leg doesn’t have to be bent or chance being hit by anything.

 

Arthur carries the suitcases out to the car again, and they go over the room quickly for prints, before shutting the door and tucking the key under the mat. He knows with a fair amount of certainty how to get to Nebraska from where they are, and son enough they're on the highway, Arthur breaking down and getting a chicken sandwich from the fast food restaurant they stop at. The coffee is more what he's focused on, anyway. And by the time they're on the freeway, back to doing only a couple of miles per hour over the speed limit, Pete is very obviously falling asleep, head pillowed on his rolled-up jacket, lulled by the motion of the moving car.

 

"Look at the bright side," Arthur says some time later; Pete's eyes flicker open slightly, focusing on the back of the point man's head, his black hair still slicked back and unmussed despite everything that had happened that day. He'll admit, not being entirely certain that he's awake at all, that the guy is pretty terrifying, but also cool in a total James Bond way. Being something of a movie buff, he's already associated Eames with more of a Danny Ocean or Rusty Ryan sort of character, equally cool but maybe just a little less likely to shoot you if you get on his bad side. "You never have to be Cooper again." His voice is almost a monotone, with very little inflection, but there's some humor in there.

 

Some sort of jazz music is playing quietly in the front seat, and it's dark, making the architect want to go right back to sleep, but he's nosy enough to want to hear what the other two men might be saying. His leg is still throbbing, but it's less of an overwhelming thing, now, and he guesses maybe the painkillers finally kicked in, at least a little- he can finally force his brain to think about something besides how much it hurts, at least.

 

Eames smirks a little at that, not looking over at Arthur but rather watching the scenery go by out the side window, head tilted just far enough to the front to see the other man in his peripheral vision. Ah, Jonas. Great twat he may be, but Eames always has a bit of a fondness for the people he forges. He spends a lot of time with them, after all. And now that he's done with the man, it's easier to look back and be amused by him, instead of wanting to tear his arm off and beat him with it.

 

"True," he says quietly. The silver lining to all of this, he supposes. To the day after that morning, that is, because if the way they'd woken up isn't a silver lining, Eames doesn't know what is. His voice is quiet as he continues; he doesn't want to disturb Pete. "On the other hand, being him wasn't so much a problem as getting his bloody coffee." Because as Jonas Cooper, Eames didn't have to deal with Jonas Cooper. So perhaps this is really _Arthur's_ silver lining.

 

He's probably far less likely to want to punch Eames in the face when he's not forging Jonas, too. Probably. Eames hopes.

 

"Only because you had no concept of how much of a twat you were," Arthur counters, the amusement even more audible now. Really, that's the only word for that idiot of a man. He doesn't look away from the windshield, but his eyes are smiling, now. The adrenaline has finally left his system, and he can think at a normal pace again.

 

And there is something that's been bugging him since that first level of this job. It had been pushed to the back of his mind by events since then, of course, but he intends to ask Eames about it... once he figures out how to phrase the question. "I wondered something. About forging." He pauses. "Not that I'm interested in learning, because I'm well aware I'd be horrible, you don't have to tell me. But how it works..."

 

Another brief few seconds of silence as he gathers his thoughts. "Is it always like that? When you... forget you're you? You don't always go that deep. You didn't, on the Fischer job, not with the blonde. Or with Browning." And he won't tell the other man, but... it had bothered him, when Eames had looked up at him and hadn't even known him. Maybe it had something to do with turning into the person in the middle of the dream, or entering the dream level in a new identity. Or something. He doesn't know, and doesn't pretend to be an expert.

 

Though he’d had a vague suspicion that a question of this nature was coming, Eames doesn’t answer right away, because he isn’t sure how to explain. Forging, as he knows it at least, is not a science. There are no strict governing rules to how it works, because it is a psychological thing, and therefore is different for different people. There are some rules… but Eames imagines that they could be broken, like most rules can be broken in dreams, if you just find a way.

 

And so some of the things he does… his methods, and the results of them… are difficult to explain. So difficult, in fact, that he has very rarely explained them in great detail to anyone. Or maybe he hasn’t, really, because he doesn’t want to allow people to see behind the curtain, to de-magic the whole thing. He just doesn’t share. It’s a pervasive quality of Eames’. But this is a legitimate question, from Arthur, who’s been nothing but forthright with him, and so Eames doesn’t sidestep, though he doesn’t look over at the other man, either, but rather continues watching America the Beautiful fly by at a stately pace as he unconsciously fingers the pair of poker chips that seem to appear in his hand on and off.

 

“No,” Eames says slowly, which is the truth; it _wasn’t_ like that with Browning or the blonde. But it was, with Jonas. It has been before. And it will be again, undoubtedly. It could have been with Browning, if necessary. “It depends on the job, love. Miller would have known the difference between…” Here Eames pauses, obviously uncertain of how to phrase this. “…a character or a forgery. They’ve been on again off again for years. Fischer’s relationship with Browning was never that close. And the blonde is hardly a forgery at all. She’s the equivalent of me in a costume.”

 

"With better fashion sense," Arthur mutters, but he doesn't comment further for a moment, mulling all of that over. Eames in a costume- well, yes, the blonde does make sense. It's also fitting, somehow, that his version of himself as a woman is a very busty blonde with the tiniest waistline Arthur has ever seen. Oh, he noticed. But this is not the time to get into that discussion, and so he moves right along to Browning. True enough that Fischer hadn't been so close with Browning- it would be hard to know someone that well without having experienced physical intimacy.

 

When he speaks again, his voice is thoughtful. "So you're actually becoming someone else, in those cases. Is there anything of you left in there, when you do that?"

 

Eames’ response is slow in coming again, which is highly abnormal for the man who has a retort or answer for everything, but then, he is obviously thoughtful when it comes to this. And, too, it’s clear that this is veering near the area of ‘personal information,’ which Eames not only doesn’t often share, he avoids like the plague. Indeed, this question is veering awfully close to uncomfortable for the forger, but there’s no reason for that, he reminds himself, and letting on to the fact would be a mistake, he thinks.

 

“Yes, of course,” he says after a moment, and having no better phrasing available, adds, “or I wouldn’t have come back.” And right after he says it, Eames realizes he isn’t sure if that answer is true at all. He has no idea if any of him was left in there with Jonas, because it wasn’t him, really. But he was there in the mirror, each time. So there must have been some part of him in there. Where else would he have been?

 

The idea is an odd one, certainly, and disliking it for the unnecessary confusion it could cause if left to its own devices, Eames brushes the thought off with little effort. After a moment, he replaces the poker chips in his pocket and glances first down and then over at Arthur for a moment. “Why the sudden interest?”

 

Arthur keeps his eyes on the road this time, veering out of their lane and around the slow-moving Volkswagen in front of them. "It was different," he says finally. "You were still there, when you were Browning." He hadn't seen Eames interact with anyone as the blonde woman, although the swagger she'd had had been all the forger, he'd recognized that straight off.

 

He shrugs, reaching up to take a sip of his coffee. "You weren't there, not until you looked at the window. It was... worrisome." He doesn't want something like that screwing up a job, obviously. Only reason he was worried. Setting the coffee back in the cup-holder, he finally glances, very briefly, at the forger, before returning his eyes to the road. His voice is significantly quieter. "What happens if there's no mirror, and you go that deep? What if there's no reflection in the dream?"

 

Eyes long since returned to his window by the time Arthur asks these (very good) questions, Eames considers leaning against it, wonders if it’ll be cold in Omaha, and if maybe he should redirect this conversation elsewhere, perhaps to Arthur’s recently odd behavior regarding the city they’re heading towards. Because he doesn’t know how to answer that question; or rather, perhaps he does, but he’d rather not. No one has ever questioned any of this so closely before, and the people who had questioned it… Eames had never really felt compelled to give them straight answers. But then, no one had ever said that it was ‘worrisome,’ either.

 

Eames doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, or why this conversation is happening, or what Arthur wants him to say. To admit that he doesn’t know? To admit that he _does?_ Poker chips no longer in hand and not glancing around at the landscape, Eames finds himself uncommonly still. “There’s always a reflection,” he says finally, and leaves it at that, effectively nullifying or refusing to answer the actual question. It’s not about the mirror, anyway—it’s all just psychological. The mirrors aren’t really there, he’s not really there, no one is. It’s all minds, minds and minds connected to one another. And he doesn’t jaunt into dreams, performing forgeries at random. The dreamers know there should be mirrors.

 

Arthur is silent after that, sensing that the conversation had crossed the line for Eames, as that was a much less direct answer than the last had been. But falling silent doesn't make his questions disappear, and the fact that Eames had effectively avoided the hell out of it means... either he doesn't know what would happen, or... he wouldn't be able to come back to himself. Neither of those is comforting in the least, and the second... makes the worried, pit-like feeling in his gut get significantly worse.

 

It's nearing midnight when his vision finally hits the blurry point, and coffee doesn't do its job waking him up. When things start to go out of focus and not come back into it, he finally breaks the silence again; they'd had a few quiet exchanges, on and off, but nothing significant since the forging discussion. "We need to switch. It'll be dangerous for me to keep driving."

 

Ah. And here is the point Eames has been avoiding, apparently, for too long, because if it’s going to be dangerous for him to keep driving, Eames obviously waited a little too long to inform him that switching would be a bad idea. Feeling rather like an arse for that, Eames’ eyes shift around a bit before settling on Arthur’s shoulder instead of his face. And for once it has nothing to do with imagining he has x-ray vision and can see through the clothes (although that is a fun pastime).

 

“Arthur,” he says slowly, realizing again all of the reasons he’s been conveniently forgetting to mention this for most of the day: he doesn’t want to admit inability to do something, a complete lack of skill in an area that most people take for granted, nor to explain why that is so. It’s not an uncommon feeling, actually, and so it’s no wonder Eames had forgotten about it. “There’s a bit of a problem with that.”

 

Arthur eyes him tiredly. Eames withholds a sigh. “It has to do with me not driving.” He clears his throat quietly, then looks away again. “Ah. I have a license of course, but as that does not magically grant knowledge, I’d prefer not to put it to use unless there is an emergency.”

 

Arthur blinks at him, his sleepy brain taking far too long to process all of that. There's a long pause, as his tired mind tries to come up with a reason why Eames would not know how to drive, but going by the way the other man is not looking at him, to ask (while a normal sort of question) would be prying... and really, it doesn't matter. They should stop and change Pete's dressing, anyway; getting a few hours' sleep will make him safe to drive again, and he really wouldn't mind a goddamn bed.

 

"Okay," he accepts, not questioning but instead taking the nearest off-ramp with a sign for motels. "'M sensing a story there, but it's fucking-late-o'clock. A motel's fine." They end up at a Motel Six, in fact, and Arthur can't help it when his eyelids slip closed while Eames goes into the office to get them a room. He doesn't dream anymore, hasn't for years, but the familiar black pit is welcoming at this point...

 

The next time he wakes it’s to Eames half- lifting him out of the car, not being particularly willing to carry him inside without his permission, even though he’d carried Pete inside with no problem. Pete isn’t Arthur, though, and so instead Eames just leads him in to the two-bed room, half-shoving him onto the bed that Pete isn’t in in an effort to make it seem less like he’s tucking the man in, but he’s still deceptively gentle about it. Arthur is clearly exhausted, so Eames will take care of Pete himself, as well as whatever else needs to be done.

 

Fucking-late-o’clock. A sleepy Arthur, Eames decides, is a rather funny Arthur, and also charming in a softened sort of fashion. “Go to sleep, pet,” he suggests quietly. “I’ll take care of things.” Including removing the man’s shoes if he’s still like that when Eames has finished with Pete.

 

Smiling despite himself, Eames switches beds to find Pete partially awake; more medication is in order, so Pete has some more Gatorade and takes more pills while Eames gets to work checking and re-wrapping his poor leg. Then after that… well, then, hopefully he’ll get some sleep as well. It is, after all, fucking-late-o’clock.

 

Arthur wakes again, at least partially, when the bed dips beneath Eames' weight again. He realizes, after a few minutes' thought, that he is lying on a bed, yes, on top of the comforter... and still in his clothes. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he shoves off his shoes and socks, not bothering to untie the shoes for perhaps the first time in years, and yanks his shirt up over his head, tossing that in the general direction of not the bed.

 

A half-awake glance over his shoulder informs him that Eames is doing approximately the same things, and he glances blearily around the room, wondering when they'd gotten inside... and when Eames had brought everything inside and re-bandaged Pete's leg, because the dressing looks quite fresh. "Sorry," he mumbles, not having meant to slack off, obviously... but his brain no longer wants to stay awake, and he falls over onto the pillow again before turning over, his back to Pete, who is blinking at them, clearly equally barely awake.

 

"You guys okay if I turn out the light?" he asks when there's silence for a minute from the other bed. Eames strips off his shirt as well and lays down; Pete blinks at his ink, but then shrugs, taking this as an assent and clicking off the light.

 

Hey, whatever. As long as they don't wake him up and he doesn't have to listen to it all night... whatever. Not his business.

 

Maybe not strangely, Eames is the first to wake in the morning. He finds himself curled half around a sleeping Arthur for the second morning in a row, although this time they are (sadly) not naked. It takes a few minutes, mainly because waking up this way is strangely comforting and makes it difficult not to just fall back to sleep, but eventually Eames recalls the entire day before. Pete’s leg. Their possible tail. Omaha…

 

Arthur had wanted to sleep for a few hours; a glance in the direction of the window and then the clock between the beds informs Eames that it’s long past a few hours. So much for getting there mid-morning, Eames thinks with a smirk.

 

It takes all sorts of willpower to climb out of bed a few minutes later, but Eames does it purely out of a burning desire to shower. He can’t remember ever wanting a shower more than he does right now, after a day spent barely clean of Pete’s blood. So shower it is, then he’ll see if he has the heart to wake either Arthur or Pete, because paranoia forbids Eames going anywhere to get food or caffeine and leaving them sleeping and therefore defenseless.

 

Arthur wakes on his own when the shower starts to run in the other room, partially from the noise and partially because all of a sudden, he's freezing. This is, of course, explained by the lack of Eames next to him, although the indentation from the other man's head on the pillow is still there, and the mattress is still warm where he'd been laying. Arthur tries very hard not to think about how quickly he'd accustomed himself to having the other man sleeping next to him. This is only the second night, after all. He doesn't normally sleep well with anyone else in the bed, but he'd slept like a rock this past night... and the one before.

 

Yawning, he climbs out of bed, himself, seeing Pete still unconscious. He determines that he'll rinse off after Eames is finished, since he doesn't exactly smell like a flower, himself, and then they should go. And as it's past eight, they should really get on the road, for the sake of Pete's leg if nothing else.

 

So... time is a factor. They should move quickly. Which is why, as he's about to boot up his laptop, his eyes stray to the bathroom door.

 

No. With the shower on, they'd never hear anyone coming in the door. However, a glance outside reveals a deserted parking lot, but for their car and a minivan further down the way, currently being filled with what looks like about six small children. The shower turns off in the bathroom, and he glances down at Pete, still snoring away.

 

Eames is just putting on a towel when Arthur tests the bathroom doorknob and, finding it unlocked, pushes the door open, shutting it behind himself. He takes a moment, entirely unashamed, to admire the scenery before smirking a little as he meets Eames' surprised gaze. "Bed was cold."

 

A smile sneaks up on Eames, who had both assumed that Arthur was asleep and that even if he wasn’t, that he wouldn’t wander in here at the moment for all of the reasons Arthur had been thinking before he had. The surprise is enough to wring a smile instead of a smirk from him, but that lasts for a very short period before it morphs into a smirk to match Arthur’s.

 

“Very sorry,” he says, completely sincere. He raises an eyebrow. “I could make it up to you.”

 

"Yeah, you could." Arthur steps away from the door, sparing an appreciative glance at the both of them in the mirror before he's within touching distance of Eames, his feet halting their forward motion all on their own.

 

He could wait for Eames. He doubts the forger would have a problem with being the one to start things. But they just spent the night in bed, and he'd... been fine. So this should be no problem. Swallowing, he lifts a hand, reaches for the other man... and when he touches warm, damp skin, as per usual, his nerves dissipate. "Why don't you do that," he suggests, voice low, as he pulls Eames over, taking another step of his own until their mouths meet.

 

For the second time in as many minutes, Eames can’t help the pleasantly surprised feeling that hits him. He wouldn’t have minded pulling Arthur to him until it stopped bothering him. He wouldn’t have, not at all. But at the same time… it’s oddly nice, in a way that makes him feel strangely honored, knowing that Arthur had made the effort. Knowing that that had to be an effort in the _first_ place is more knowledge about Arthur than Eames thinks most people know. And then for him to actually make the effort… well.

 

Of course, Eames has about half a second to appreciate this before he absolutely ceases to care about anything besides getting Arthur the hell out of the bit of clothing he still has on. Because if he’s going to be making it up to Arthur, the pants absolutely have to go. All of his ideas have no place on a clothed Arthur.

 

Arthur has no objections, nor does he object to being backed into the shower stall, his back hitting cool tile. Eames is the opposite, pressing him into the wall, towel long gone, and Arthur lets go more easily than he ever has. He's not trying to be in charge, isn't thinking about anything but the other man's mouth against his... and the rest of Eames, also against him, very solid and oddly... reassuring.

 

He's more or less clean when they leave the shower a little while later; he hadn't meant to do that, have them both in there with the shower running, but he can't bring himself to regret it, despite promising himself a mental lecture on the dangers of sloppiness. That could have gotten them killed. It's sobering, and wakes him up completely as he dresses... but he still doesn't regret doing it.

 

He also looks much more like himself, in slacks, shirt and tie and, today, a black sweater. He doesn't think about wanting to look completely different, returning to Omaha, than he had when he'd left, a decade before. Then, he'd been in the middle of his ponytail phase, before the marines had shaved it off, and wearing torn jeans and his dad's old leather jacket.

 

He's changed a bit, to say the least, and image has always been a big thing for him. He can control how he looks, how other people perceive him... and thus, to an extent, how they act towards him. It's the difference between walking into a decent store and being given a suspicious look, as though he might be about to shoplift something, or being immediately approached by a clerk who offers their assistance if it's needed.

 

But outward appearances aside, they're ready to leave fairly quickly, and if Pete pays any attention to the fact that both he and Eames had emerged from the bathroom at nearly the same time, he doesn't comment. They're back in the car within half an hour of waking up, and Arthur consents to fast food again, if only for the sake of expediency. Blech.

 

The drive begins again, much the same as it had been the day before; Pete looks a little better, though, Eames notes, even engaging in conversation on and off. This only lasts for a while, though, before the architect dozes off again, and Eames isn’t surprised by that, either. Sometimes, sleep is the only healing you’re going to get, and maybe it’s not wise to be so trusting of two blokes you only just met for a job that you keep falling asleep with only them to guard you, but in this case, Pete’s trust isn’t terribly misplaced. Eames finds himself liking the kid almost against his will.

 

The sleep- and the shower, Eames thinks with a smirk- had done wonders for himself and Arthur, as well. Arthur, for his part, looks much more rested, and yes, like himself. Eames eyes as much of himself as he can see in the passenger-side mirror and decides he looks better, himself. Just as well, because they _will_ make it today… in another eight hours, at least.

 

But still, that’s closer to their destination than they’d been the night before, and brings questions back to Eames that he’d ignored the day before but had festered and hopped up and down in the back of his mind all day, generally making a nuisance of themselves until finally, Eames has to ask. It’s just lucky he’d managed to keep it to himself until Pete fell asleep. He eyes the architect through the rearview mirror for a moment before glancing out the window again. Yep. Getting colder. Not much of a vacation, Miami, getting shot at after a week of following Jonas Cooper around and getting his coffee. “So,” he says, drawing the word out a bit longer than strictly necessary. “Omaha.”

 

"Mmhmm." Arthur knows exactly what Eames is doing, and is just as determined not to play along. When he catches Eames watching him pointedly out of the corner of his eye, he raises a brow. "City in Nebraska."

 

This does not appear to be a satisfactory answer, and his other brow raises to join the first. "What about it?" To be fair, this is only fair, as he doesn't see Eames offering up any information on his own background. And he's not entirely certain that he wants to play storyteller today. Or that this will be anything more than just driving to wherever Pete's folks are, dropping him off and wishing him luck, losing the car... and flying somewhere else. Somewhere that is not Omaha, to be completely unspecific.

 

After all, what's there to go back to? Nothing. His dad's gone, Mom's in New England, and his sister... His thoughts veer away from their as they usually do, and he sips his coffee, waiting for Eames' next attempt.

 

Eames very nearly sighs at this response. All right then, that suggests that either Arthur is just wanting to be a pain in the ass, no pun intended, which is very possible, or that asking about Omaha is pushing too much. Which, Eames can’t help but feel, means that it’s important, whatever’s in Omaha. Hometown? Family? Old homicidal girlfriend? Police troubles? Who the hell knows? Not Eames, that’s for certain, which would be why he’d very nearly asked.

 

Sigh withheld, Eames spends a few minutes staring out the window again. He has that habit when he’s not watching people. But if he stared at Arthur, he’d want to ask _even more_. So Eames keeps to himself for a few minutes of relative silence.

 

“It’s just that you dropped things and forgot we hadn’t gotten a car when he mentioned the city specifically,” he says without his brain’s consent a few minutes later. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it’s more likely to turn Eames into an annoying four-year old and possibly to get him punched.

 

"Yeah, that doesn't happen often," Arthur agrees, keeping his eyes fixed on the front windshield. They're in Tennessee, now, but by mid-afternoon they'll be in Nebraska, and by dinnertime they'll have reached Omaha. Whether Arthur keeps going a bit further north... he doesn't know. He just doesn't... know.

 

"I was born near there," he says finally. The statement is very flat, with little to no inflection. "Shitty memories and all." High school wasn't so bad, maybe, but that was a few hundred miles away, and the years prior to that color everything that came after.

 

Mildly surprised that Arthur hadn’t told him to piss off (maybe not in so many words), Eames takes that in relatively quietly. Normally, prying is not taken particularly well. Then again, he doesn’t take prying well, so perhaps he just projects and expects other people to react in the same way. That is obviously all Arthur’s going to say about it, but to be honest, that is _much_ more than Eames had expected. __

“Ah,” he says after a moment, the urge to pry further killed by Arthur’s flat tone. Even Eames knows better. That was enough to answer the burning question, anyway. Certainly he wonders what sorts of shitty memories the other man might have, but he’s not nearly pushy or nosy enough to ask. “Suppose that explains the lack of map use.” And after that, he decides to go ahead and pretend Arthur had told him to piss off anyway, and returns to looking out the window. He’s done prying. “That’s just as well. I haven’t the patience for road maps, I’m a terrible navigator.”

 

Arthur's eyes crinkle a bit in a smile. "That is entirely shocking news. I am completely surprised." He has no idea what maps might even be in this car, but it's true; he knows well enough how to get back to Omaha. Not from living there, though. "Actually, Google Maps explains it. I was only fourteen when they sent me off."

 

But things had gotten a bit brighter at that point... well, aside from his mom. But thinking about all of that is just going to make him want to punch someone; the failures of the legal system are the reason he generally ignores the law, but that's again not a train of thought he wants to get into right now.

 

He doesn't offer any more information, figuring that Eames will be happy with that; they get into an inane discussion about the usefulness of GoogleMaps versus just asking directions, and Arthur is very not surprised to discover that Eames likes everything analog, as opposed to digital. Still, it's enough to keep them occupied off and on, and before Arthur realizes it, they're in Nebraska and approaching Omaha city limits.

 

Pete sends them west of the city, to a small, classically suburban neighborhood, and Arthur eyes the perfectly manicured lawns and houses with a sort of suspicious interest. He's never lived in a place like this, but when they pull up in front of the house Pete directs them to, there are already two cars in the driveway, and a dog starts to bark.

 

"We'll get you to the door," he says when Pete starts to move around in the backseat. "You shouldn't walk on your leg."

 

Even though Eames is sure Arthur agrees with him in not wanting to be seen by Pete’s parents and/or family, they can’t just drop him off at the curb and speed away, so Eames has to agree. Can’t let him try to hobble on up there. So that explains why, despite not wanting the unknown parents to be able to identify them, they help Pete up to the front door. Eames can hear sounds of movement from inside, and he is not terribly interested in seeing what the reactions of the people in there will be to seeing Pete shot.

 

So he pats Pete on the back gentler than would be normal, detaching him and moving the kid to lean against the railing near the door. “Very nice working with you, mate,” he says, then glances down at the architect’s leg. “Get yourself to a hospital.”

 

“My mom’ll make sure of it, don’t worry,” Pete says, voice dry. Eames doesn’t doubt that, and wonders how in the world someone who can say the word “mom” in such a non-hatred or –angst-ridden tone could possibly have ended up doing what they’re doing. Then again, the architects seem to be the least criminal-like of them all, consistently. Poor kid probably just enjoyed the creation, the same way Ariadne did.

 

“Good,” he says. “Listen to her, then.” And that said, it’s time to get out of here. Maybe ring the doorbell for him first, though.

 

Arthur nods, thinking along the same lines as Eames. "Take care of yourself," he offers. Pete nods, grimacing at them both, and Arthur feels a brief pang of jealousy, wondering what it must be like to have a mum who takes care of you, not the other way around. But it's brief, because he is long past the age where he'd need a mother to watch over him, and so he presses the doorbell, following Eames back down to the street, where he starts the car and they speed away from the curb, just as Pete's front door opens.

 

The point man lets out an audible sigh, then, checking that item off his mental list. Take care of wounded teammate, check. Next, dispose of car and obtain another. Also, dispose of sheets and other items covered in Pete's blood. But before all of that... it's still light out, and he has the desire to go somewhere specific, suddenly. Or the balls to go, rather.

 

"I know we have to get out of here," he says, stopped at a red light. "But there's someone I need to see while I'm here. I won't be long, but I can drop you off at the airport on my way if you want."

 

Eames is silent for a moment, sensing another one of those moments where he has an obvious out, which he would normally take, casually of course, but he’d do it and leave as quickly as possible without looking back. He does that all the time. And always, before now, long, long before it had gotten to anything resembling this point. So why isn’t he itching to scamper?

 

Aside from curiosity, that is. He is all sorts of curious about all of this, Arthur and Omaha, but… but he’s done intruding. Yet another good reason to leave. An excuse, even. Not wanting to prise.

 

“I can wait,” he says quietly after a moment, not looking at Arthur, but rather at a spot to the side of the airbag symbol on the passenger side dashboard, not sure what he’s staring at so very hard is actually visible at all. He feels a strangely familiar tension, suddenly, like he’s waiting for something that he doesn’t particularly want to come, but he doesn’t know what or want to know what… so hastily, Eames adds (very casually), “I don’t really know where I’m headed yet.”

 

"Neither do I." Arthur's voice is still quiet, but equally casual. This time, though, when he gets back on the highway, he knows where he's going, and it's a familiar exit-ramp that takes him down into the town where he'd been born. He takes a meandering route, passing his old school, his best friend's house, the playground where he'd played with his sister, when she'd been well...

 

Their old house, a rental that had been in bad need of repair, is no longer there, he discovers. That hurts a bit, but he doesn't narrate to Eames as he drives around. The old garage where he'd learned to chop cars, to steal them, to break down the very basic car security systems of that time, has been bought out by a Goodyear. In general, the entire place looks a lot more rundown than he remembers it. "It seemed bigger then," is the only observation he makes. He drives past the local church three times before convincing himself to pull into the lot, shutting off the car next to the sprawling cemetery.

 

"I won't be long," he repeats quietly after a few minutes, getting out. "You can... you don't have to... you know. Do whatever." The least comprehensible sentence he's spoken in years, he's sure, but his voice is steady, and he feels more numb than anything else, shutting the car door and pulling on his jacket as he walks through the cemetery gate.

 

He hasn't been here in... twenty years, almost, he realizes. He still remembers coming here with his mom, though, although it had seemed bigger to him, then. But that's normal when you're a kid, he guesses. His mom hadn't liked to come here very often. He hadn't minded, when it was sunny out, but his mom would start to shake and have to leave, and she'd wait at the bus stop for him while he stayed for a while.

 

His feet carry him slowly to the spot he remembers, under the big pine tree- he'd used to have a devil of a time moving the pine needles from her plot, he recalls. They keep it up better now, though, and the grass is clean in front of the small white headstone.

 

 _Marie Kaufman. June 1, 1983 - December 19, 1991. Beloved daughter._

 

There are no flowers in the little urn, not even old ones, but there wouldn't be, he supposes, wishing with a flinch that he'd thought to stop.

 

She looked just like him, he remembers. Same hair, same eyes. She'd be beautiful now, he thinks. He'd always thought she would've been. But she's only bones, now, below the grass, and he swallows the choking sound before it escapes. Twenty years, but this still hurts. He hadn't known what it meant then, really, when someone died. Only that she wasn't there anymore. Then his dad was gone, and his mom was broken. Where would he be if she hadn't died?

 

"I hope it's nice where you are," he says finally, almost under his breath but feeling like he should say something. He'd heard the footsteps behind him a few minutes before, but he doesn't care if Eames can hear him. "I don't think I'll be seeing you there, but I hope you're happy."

 

After a moment, he clears his throat, glancing back at Eames, who is surprisingly closer than he'd realized. "She was eight. I was ten. She was sick a lot when we were younger, but... then she got pneumonia." And the words come surprisingly easily to him, even though he could never have talked about this in the car. Not to Cobb or his mom... or anyone, really.

 

Standing a few feet behind him, Eames takes the fact that Arthur had spoken to him as quiet assent to come forward a little, so he does, standing to the side and only slightly behind Arthur. He doesn't dare touch him or anything; if anything is a private moment and place, this would be it. But here he is anyway, and Eames feels more than a little like an intruder, especially when he spends a moment staring at the headstone and realizes that Kaufman must have, at one time, been Arthur's last name. Eames doesn't know why that bit of knowledge feels like prying even more than getting out of the car and following him here had, but it does.

 

He's silent after Arthur's explanation, staring down at the headstone and wondering what he is supposed to say and why he'd been so bloody nosy earlier. He'd known, when Arthur had said he'd grown up here, that this place had to contain something, but of course he hadn't known... well. Losing a sister, when he was so young... Jesus. Eight years old, she didn't even have a chance to live, really. But Arthur did, and he can obviously still feel that loss.

 

A loss that Eames thinks he should understand, feel on a more personal level than he does, but that doesn't bother him. What bothers him is seeing Arthur, expression still even somehow, but the grief still there where Eames can see it clearly in his eyes. _That_ Eames feels unexpectedly deeply. Until recently... it had been hard, really, to imagine Arthur as a child, as anything but Arthur as he is now. But he'd been a child once, had a sister, and she's gone now, and who knows what else happened that ended in Arthur becoming Arthur. But there is one piece of the puzzle, and it humanizes the other man more than anything he has ever told Eames before.

 

Eames isn't good at grief. He doesn't really know how to handle it, his own or other people's. For as social as he is... well. No one really knows how to handle it properly. That's why it's grief and not temporary sadness. You don't get over it, really. "I'm sorry," he manages finally, voice quiet, and it may be the most genuine thing Eames has said in a long time.

 

Arthur doesn't know how to reply to that, really. He hadn't actually meant for Eames to see any of this, hadn't intended to _come_ here. But now that he's standing here, he's not sure what to do. His feet seem to have taken up roots, and he imagines them going all the way down, six feet down... and shudders a little, again.

 

"Thank you," he says finally, unsure of what other words would be appropriate. No one knows this about him, but he realizes suddenly that now Eames knows the last name he was born with, knows he was born here, knows... more about Arthur Kaufman than anyone but his mother. Even Cobb doesn't know about Marie.

 

He's not sure how long they stand there, but after a while the sun goes down, and Eames doesn't say a word, nor does he leave Arthur to go back to the car. Finally, though, when there's no more light to see by and he can no longer make out his sister's name etched in the marble, he steps back and finds the forger still standing close to him. "I'm ready to go," he says quietly.

 

“All right,” Eames says, equally quietly, then turns when Arthur does, and they make their way back to the car in relative silence. Eames is not normally a silent sort of person (although he does have his moods) but right now there really isn’t anything to say. What would he say? Sorry again? Thank you for letting me in on the fact that you had a sister who died when she was a child? Your childhood hometown is nice? There really, really isn’t anything to say.

 

So silence it is, and it carries on as they get in the car. Eames wishes for a moment that he could offer to drive, supposes he could but isn’t sure that would be particularly safe and doesn’t really want to be pulled over for something stupid. So he just climbs in the passenger side and wonders what ten-year-old Arthur Kaufman was like. Aside from looking adorable. Eames wholeheartedly believes he would have been adorable as a child. But that only leads to wondering what his sister was like, and that just makes Eames wish there was something he could say. Again.

 

They’re silent for a long time; Arthur is driving, Eames has no idea where. He doesn’t know this place. He’d be better were they on a highway, but probably not terribly; his knowledge of Nebraska isn’t exactly great. So that leads to a conversation topic, eventually. Only relevant enough that Arthur can answer or ignore him as he pleases. “Where to now?” he asks quietly, meaning in the general sense or in the Arthur and jobs sense. Eames doesn’t really know.

 

"No idea," Arthur admits. He'd been heading in the general direction of the airport, but he has no idea where to fly to. Probably out of the states, he figures, but he's not sure there are many international flights leaving Omaha's airport. So, probably New York, Boston... or, if he wants to head in the direction of Asia, then LAX. Hell, he doesn't know.

 

He accelerates up the ramp to the highway for lack of any other direction to head in, staring at the flat landscape surrounding the car. No hills, no mountains, nothing to remark upon, not unless he drives far enough east that he hits the Mississippi. Even closer to the city, the night sky is completely black, here, and it's been a while since he saw the stars without some kind of light pollution obscuring the view.

 

Finally, he shrugs. "Airport, I guess, unless you have other plans."

 

Eames’ smile is small and wry. “No plans,” he reminds Arthur. He doesn’t do a lot of planning of that sort of thing, mainly because he doesn’t know what might happen on a job. He could end up having to flee quickly and then not be able to do what he’d planned, which would be an issue if he’d lined up another job. He could end up dead, too. That’s a distinct possibility.

 

And plans, too, mean something to look forward to or dread. Eames much prefers the sense of freedom that is stepping into an airport, looking up at the scheduled flights, and picking whichever one takes his fancy. That’s really what it is, he supposes. Freedom.

 

“Maybe somewhere with less humidity and rain,” he muses quietly, back to staring out the window. A change from Miami wouldn't be terrible.

 

"So not back to Mombasa." The quip feels good, normal, and Arthur wishes he could make the rest of his mind return to that, instead of feeling this odd, numb sensation. He doesn't have a plan. That should bother him more, he thinks, but oddly, just now, it doesn't. His research is waiting for him in New York, but he has what he needs on his laptop to get on with the job, and he could technically do that anywhere.

 

But right now, the idea of work makes him a little ill. He thinks of the apartment he keeps up, in Italy, and thinks that maybe that doesn't sound so bad. "Florence," he suggests after a moment, not sure why he's inviting Eames along. Well, he hadn't said it in so many words, but if that's where he's going and he's suggesting that Eames accompany him... well, it's not not an invitation, he can put it that way, if clarification becomes necessary.

 

Eames is about to mention something about not having been back to Mombasa for quite a while and besides, there are only so many seedy places there in which one can dupe the house before one gets noticed. It’s best to make a rotation of it. But then Arthur says Florence, and Eames pauses, although the action is all internal, because he continues looking out the window, at least mostly. After a moment he can’t help but glance over at Arthur, just slightly.

 

Was that… an invitation? Eames isn’t sure, but it at least _resembled_ one. Arthur may have just invited him along to Florence. With him? Somewhere not here. Eames can’t remember the last time he was invited anywhere that had nothing to do with a job, and he actually does try. Back to hotel rooms or to bars doesn’t count. He can’t remember a single time off the top of his head.

 

Go to Florence… with Arthur… instead of wherever else he was going to go, by himself. This is the point he always goes off by himself. Actually, no, this is long _past_ that point. But until now, he had Pete as an excuse. Now Pete’s home with his parents, and that excuse is gone. Why he should need an excuse at all is beyond Eames, except that… he just… this just isn’t something he does, on many levels. He doesn’t know how any of this had happened. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t gone already. Where doesn’t matter. Just going there, because he can, does. And he _really_ doesn’t know why Arthur is offering, any more than he’d been able to determine why Arthur had allowed him along just now.

 

“That sounds much less rainy and humid,” his mouth agrees without any input from his brain, but once it’s said, Eames finds he doesn’t mind so much.

 

"Should be." Arthur knows, this time of year, that Florence will actually be very nice, if chilly. But his flat has a fireplace, and he finds himself suddenly glad that he'd decided to make the trip. Even if it is very, very strange, the idea of going there with Eames.

 

He sees the airport in the distance, and pulls into the long-term lot, figuring to just ditch the car there. They'll tow it eventually, but with a different plate on it than it actually is registered with, he figures it'll be a while before anyone puts the mystery back together, if anyone ever does. Regardless, he stuffs the car registration and insurance into his bag, and they wipe the car down quickly, managing to look completely nonchalant as they do so. If you don't look around over your shoulder constantly, acting like you're doing something wrong, most people pass you right by without so much as looking.

 

Dealing with the car is a simple matter when they both are at it; it only takes a few minutes, and then the both of them are on their way into the airport, stopping at the flight list. Both men take a minute to stare up at it; Eames finds himself unsurprised that there aren’t any immediately direct flights to Florence. Of course, he imagines Arthur could find out the airport to get to from here that would have a flight to Florence soon after, but lacking a laptop at the moment aside, Eames has never been particularly interested in doing things that way.

 

Plus, looking up each and every city name listed there would take a long time. So Eames glances over at Arthur. “I’d say just to aim for New York.” You can get anywhere from New York. It’s just a fact of life.

 

"Fair enough," Arthur agrees, seeing a flight headed into LaGuardia. "An hour and a half. Good timing." Normally, he would be having a conniption trying to coordinate flights, but hell, if they can't get a flight quickly enough, he has a damned apartment in the city. Not that they have much to take with them, which is a blessing, but it's still almost time for their flight to board before they get through security, with just enough time to spare for a cup of coffee.

 

It's not a long flight, either, thankfully- just under three hours and they're landing in New York; Arthur wonders if it's a good thing that he feels more at home in airports than anywhere else, at this point. But that's the job, the life, never staying long in one place, and he envies Cobb a bit for a bed to go home to. But thoughts of Cobb lead to thoughts of the kids, and thinking about Philippa brings back memories of Marie, which is a place he doesn't want to go right now. It's after midnight and the next flight to Rome doesn't leave until five.

 

"We've have about an hour to sleep if we went to my place in Manhattan, until we'd have to drive right back out to JFK," he points out around a yawn. He doesn't have a preference, really, although at this point he could fall asleep just as easily on the plastic airport seats. Wouldn't be the first time.

 

Eames feels much the same way. He has no problem sleeping in airports. Aside from general paranoia, that is, but if someone dared to attempt stealing the wallet from either himself or Arthur, they’d be in for a horrible surprise, Eames thinks. That and being spotted by someone who has a reason to dislike one of them, but although Eames is certain they both have quite a few enemies, it’s really ridiculous to assume any of them would be hanging about in airports looking for them.

 

“I suppose we might as well,” he says after thinking that over. An hour of sleep is better than none, and god knows a flight from JFK to Rome is going to be long enough for more sleep. He’d offer a place himself, except Eames doesn’t have a place in New York. It would be almost too obvious. Mombasa, yes. New York, no. Eames spends more time in hotels and motels than actual apartments, anyway.

 

Taking this as permission to move off, then, Arthur looks around, and leads the way to the nearest business-class lounge. First class on a job, where they're being funded, is one thing, but it takes a lot of money to maintain three separate false identities, and he tries not to blow it where he doesn't have to. Economy is not happening, but he'll settle for business, and Eames doesn't argue.

 

This late at night, most people appear to be doing the same thing, and he sets his carry-on down before letting himself fold into an empty lounge chair, figuring Eames will rather the couch next to it. They're in a rear corner of the lounge, and one plus to this new security-concious age is that no one else can bring a weapon inside an airport without a significant amount of effort. If they keep their heads down, they're about as safe as they're going to get.

 

Sure enough, Eames falls strangely gracefully into the couch next to Arthur’s chair, taking up the entire thing and then some, feet dangling off the end and head on the other armrest. He spends a moment looking up at Arthur from that spot before switching to the ceiling, and then to covertly watch a tired-looking businessman on the other side of the lounge as he tries to sleep but continuously wakes up with a start every two or three minutes. He looks very distressed every time he jolts awake. Eames is mildly interested, in a horrified sort of way, as he wonders what has the man so very stressed. That can’t be healthy.

 

“A flat in Manhattan can’t be cheap,” he concludes after a few minutes of watching this, eyes still in that direction but obviously speaking to Arthur.

 

"Three grand a month," Arthur says, looking a bit pained. "But it's got a view of Central Park. If you stand at the one window at a certain spot, at about six in the morning, and crane your head to the left." But it's worth it. It's completely worth it. It's Arthur's clean, perfectly-organized haven from the rest of the world. Everything all clean lines, modern furniture, pristine carpet, the works. He would give up every other apartment in exchange for that one.

 

Well. Actually, it's Michael Reynolds' haven from the rest of the world, global trader that he happens to be. But that's just technicalities, in Arthur's opinion. "You still have a place in Mombasa, I guess?" He's not entirely sure where else Eames considers home. Raising his brows, he glances over at the top of the forger's head. "Do you get back to London often?"

 

If that's prying, Eames has no obligation to answer, but... hell. He's curious, although willing to change the subject without issue.

 

“No,” Eames says after a moment, just barely before the moment when it would have been too long to pause and would have turned to awkwardly changing the subject at best. His eyes are still on the poor man across the lounge, as though not reacting physically will make asking about vaguely personal subjects not as much of a big deal.

 

For a moment, Eames considers retreating to the Mombasa question. He also considers taking off his shoes. He does neither of these things, except for the shoes part. So really he does one, that was an outright lie. “Haven’t been in ages…” he admits finally, considers saying more, finds he can’t, and so doesn’t. Instead, he beats a tactical retreat. “It’s Mombasa or New Orleans, generally, if it’s anywhere.”

 

Sensing that he had very nearly crossed the line, Arthur is still startled when Eames responds to the London question. But he's not complaining, and he accepts the slight subject change gracefully. "The Big Easy," he says, sounding a bit surprised. That one, he had not known, for all his research. Well, shit.

 

Hmph. That will be remedied as soon as he has a chance.

 

Eames’ smile returns at that, and he twists around enough to eye Arthur for a moment, forgetting all about London and the UK in general happily and with almost alarming ease. “You didn’t know?” he guesses, and assumes he is correct from the surprise written on Arthur’s face. Eames grins a bit, rolling onto his side so that it’s easier to crane around and eye Arthur every once in a while in between watching the man across the room.

 

“It’s been a while,” he admits, as though that is the only reason Arthur wouldn’t have known. Eames suspects the real reason is that he rarely behaves like himself when he goes to New Orleans so much as when he is in Mombasa, which is the easiest way to keep under the radar. It’s how he disappears, when he wants to. It’s how he’s always disappeared.

 

On the other hand, he trusts Arthur’s ability to sorcery the locations of anyone out of that computer of his, so it is still mildly surprising. Arthur always knows where everyone is. It would be mildly creepy if he didn’t know the man. It’s actually still mildly creepy. “Years, maybe. It’s usually Mombasa of late.” That is, when Eames bothers to settle down for more than a job or two at a time, which is not often.

 

"Mmhmm," Arthur agrees, closing his eyes. Sleep might not be the easiest thing to achieve in an airport, but they do need to try. Mombasa. He tries to recall what he knows of the city beyond the fact that Eames tends to be found there, which is normally the reason he has it marked on his mental map.

 

He remembers a hell of a lot of dust, and not a lot of wind. And a great deal of humidity. But then, he does like Kenya, or he had the last time he'd visited. Plainly, Eames does, as well. "I liked Kenya, when I was there. Spent more time in Nairobi." But when it comes to warm climates, he prefers the mediterranean, any side of it. And he has a great weakness for the elegance of Tuscany. It doesn't feel like home, but it feels like an escape.

 

He starts to drift off, then his eyes open again a moment later. "Wake me if I don't hear the boarding call?" he asks sleepily. Unlikely, considering how lightly he sleeps, but best to cover all bases.

 

“Of course, pet, but only if I decide I don’t need two seats,” Eames says pleasantly. After all, even in business class it can still get cramped. Maybe Eames wants to stretch out.

 

Then again, Arthur knows very well he doesn’t want to stretch out more than he wants to harass Arthur. Harass in any way possible. Including possibly groping him. But Arthur might not actually know that. Eames doesn’t intend to put that plan into motion until they’ve been in the air for long enough that the man won’t expect it.

 

 


End file.
